


Floral Tattoos

by avagueidea



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Bickering, Flirting, Florist Thranduil AU, M/M, Tattoo Artist Bard AU, eventually smut, technically Turiel/Kili (But we're not getting too much into that)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:16:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4288635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avagueidea/pseuds/avagueidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>
    <i>..:STATUS: INDEFINITE HIATUS:..</i>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Thranduil usually knows how to make a good investment, and he'd thought he'd found an ideal location for his newest flower shop on Dale St, that is, until he found out a tattoo parlor would be going in two doors down. Despite his reservations on the subject, when he spots a handsome tattooed stranger in the cafe next store he realizes he might have to reconsider his opinion.</p><p>Bard isn't sure he knows how to run a business, but when his hometown is given a second life after running out the local crime syndicate following the death of their leader, he leaps at the opportunity to recreate his grandfather's tattoo parlor. Finally making steps forward in his life, he might just be ready to take a shot at a love life again, at least, he might be if he keeps running into the tall, persnickety florist who works down the block...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Setting Up Shop

**Author's Note:**

> Starts out mostly Thranduil's POV, but we'll get some scenes from Bard as well. Kind of a premise setting first chapter, but it'll get better, haha.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's probably just Thranduil looking for an excuse to stay in the little shop; looking for a reason to stay at the quiet little shop for a little longer, but he will not have a ruckus establishment like a tattoo shop down two shops over from his newest expansion! It certainly wouldn't make a difference if it brought hunky tattooed guys into the cafe during his breaks!

Thranduil should have known that the location was too good to be true. The city of Ereborn was in its renaissance and he’d snagged up a place on the strip mall on Dale Street the second he saw the quaint little store front. The open spot was tucked between a soon to be opened Café with a deck out back to look over the water front, and a classic little barber shop with an old-timey barber’s pole and everything. It was an ideal location for the newest expansion to the Greenleaf Floral Shops.

Ereborn had had its first big rise in prosperity in the 50s as a family oriented town, including a little carnival like boardwalk cutting into the massive lake to its south. It wasn’t the place Thranduil thought he’d be setting up a shop a decade ago, though. Its reputation took a nose dive with the rise of crime with the Dragon Gang and a particularly violent gang war. For the better part of the last 40 years it had been considered a crime ridden hellhole. 

As it turns out, a decade can make a huge difference, and in recent years the city had made a large push for restoration of their ‘historical’ landmarks. The Coney Island style amusements and beach cleanup kicked it off. Soon a full kitschy, 50s revival had started, right down to the retro store fronts. This was when Thranduil had found his little flower shop to be, reluctantly ignoring the town’s bad reputation in favor of snagging the chance to get in on an up and coming market. The little four part strip mall was just far enough away from the boardwalk not to crowd out clients, and just close enough to be part of the revitalization project. He had wanted to just buy the property, but reluctantly settled for renting it when the owner wouldn’t budge. The store front had a near perfect aesthetic, enough to overcome such minor annoyances. He was pleased, that is, until he saw what was going in just past the barber shop.

What the hell right did a tattoo shop have wrecking his perfect location? He could already imagine all the drunks wandering over from the beach front to get quickie tattoos, ruining his shop’s atmosphere. Who wants to plan their wedding flowers with burly bikers a half a block’s walk down the street? Thranduil was absolutely livid that he hadn’t been told of his inconvenient new neighbor until the sign went up with a notice that “Dale Street Tattoo Parlor” would be opening in a few days. The name sounded familiar, but he choked that up to trying to reclaim the vintage feel.

When the opening day rolled around he prepared himself for the worst, watching from his store front in the guise of watering the displays out front (a task he otherwise never would have bothered with himself). If there was any excuse to get the new tenants evicted, he was sure he could find it. So he watched, and waited, and as the days passed he found himself in an odd mix of pleased and irrationally irritated. The tattoo parlor seemed to be respectfully run. No ruckus was going on around it, no unscrupulous sorts of people scaring off his business, and when a group of horrendously drunk college students wandered over for tattoos from the boardwalk, they were seemingly turned away. (He gave these kids a hard glare and they’d turned their rabblerousing right around the other way without a second thought).

Thranduil should have been pleased, but he’d been dead set on taking issue with the establishment. He had been so ready for the challenge of getting rid of a nuisance that he found he had suddenly lost the fire he’d set up under himself and was left rather cold.

By the end of the week he had given up staking out the place and gone back to putting his full attention into making his new business flourish, which started with making sure that these first few weeks had immaculate pieces turned out on time.

He attempted to put together the piece he was working on. He liked to do arrangements himself when he had time, despite technically being the owner of several locations and having other business affairs beyond his flower shop pet project to focus on. The work usually had a soothing effect for him. Today, though, he found that the flowers he was working on just… lacked passion. The piece was for a proposal dinner and such a cold lifeless thing wouldn’t due. He sighed and put aside the flowers, getting himself up. 

 

“I’m going next store to get some coffee, I’ll be back in 15,” he stated simply to the redheaded young woman at the cash register. She nodded dutifully before turning to beautifying small impulse buy items around the checkout counter.

He wandered to the café next store and got his coffee, deciding to stay in the shop for his break. Having some time away from the flowers might give him fresh eyes on the piece after. He scanned the room in a businesslike manner, accessing how well the new café was doing. He’d become quite good at judging if a place would stay open or not by the general vibes of opening week. He’d always had a good eye for location and atmosphere, which was likely why he’d always done well in any business venture he’d began, or at least, almost any…

But speaking of atmosphere, as his eyes moved over the occupants of the cafe, he found one customer that was certainly enhancing the café’s quite a bit. He paused on a ruggedly handsome sort of man. He had a classic button up shirt, and dark messy hair pulled back into a short curly puff of a ponytail at the back of his neck. He was settling down, tossing a leather jacket, which looked at least a decade worn in, over the back of his chair. He sat, putting a notebook down in front of him and rolling up his sleeves. Thranduil had never been a huge fan of large tattoos; he’d never understood the appeal of covering one’s skin with, probably ill advised, permanent doodles. As he watched that man roll up his shirt to reveal full colored sleeves, though, he had to reconsider that position a little. This wasn’t a haphazard collection of patched together pictures. Despite being across the room, Thranduil could see the flowing composition that used the shape of its curved canvas to its full advantage, even if he couldn’t see exactly what it was that made up the designs.

The man leaned over the notebook, intensely working on something. Thranduil was glad for the intensity, not only to admire the slightly too serious expression intensifying the man’s profile, but because it gave him free reign to stare. There was no harm in it, he figured. The man was clearly in his thirties, meaning he was far too young for Thranduil. Not that Thranduil looked bad for his age by any means, most people wouldn’t guess him much past 40, let alone past 50, but that didn’t mean he’d be hitting on 30-somethings. No, he’d just allow himself a pleasant diversion for a few minutes before heading back to that damn proposal arrangement.

 

When he’d gotten back he was 10 minutes later than he’d anticipated. He had found the younger man’s earnestness in his work charming enough to lose track of time. The cashier didn’t mention his lateness, though she gave him an inquisitive look, which was fair enough. He was generally a punctual sort of person. He ignored it all the same. He found himself a little less at a loss on his current work when he returned to the backroom. As he placed the flowers with a little more inspiration, he thought that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t quite so horrible that the tattoo parlor would be down the block. 

 

It, of course, wasn’t a conscious decision to return to the café the next day, and that it happened to be at the same time didn’t have anything to do with the hopes of spotting the attractive tattooed man from the day before. Thranduil simply needed a break around 3 in the afternoon again. If he so happened to find that the dark haired stranger was a regular, he certainly wouldn’t bother to take note of that fact.

If he were to be honest with himself, it was possible that Thranduil was just looking for an excuse to stay at the small new shop. He’d been a bit disappointed to find no fight to be had in the new location, taking away any excuse to stay put longer at the store and waste time putting together arrangements. He knew there were more profitable ways to be spending his time, responsibilities to tend to; he couldn’t convince himself it was acceptable to play with flowers all day. 

He did like to be present at any new establishment he set up for the first couple of weeks, to make sure the opening went smoothly and the new hires were capable of handling things. In addition to his presence at new stores, at least one of the staff was always transferred over from an old store as well; someone who knew the ropes and that he could count on to ensure quality as new employees were trained. In this case, he left things in the capable hands of the young Miss Turiel, a redheaded girl of twenty that he’d had on staff since she turned 16. She was the ideal employee, even if he didn’t care for how quickly his son had taken to flirting with her. She was a good employee, but not a good fit for his son and he was relieved to have his son removed from such temptations, being away at college. But, match for his son or not, he confidently left the store in the young woman’s hands for his break as he headed to the café. 

He was just settling down with his coffee and a bit of paperwork to look over when he spotted Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tattooed. He sat next to the window again, small notebook out in front of him and was just putting on that serious expression. Thranduil, of course, didn’t let this stop him from getting things done, but it was a pleasant backdrop to paperwork. A casual glance up from his papers, over the reading glasses at the tip of his nose, was a healthy level of indulgence. Not that he would actually waste time flirting with strangers at coffee shops, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he could charm his way into coffee with the younger man. Any such thoughts were dissolved by the sweet giggling chime of a blond little girl running up to the man.

The girl looked 8 or 9 and her sun bleached, blond hair was frizzing out of the French braids that rounded either side of her head. She rushed straight to the man, whose concentrated look evaporated into quite possibly the sweetest smile Thranduil had ever seen. She hustled over, dropping her school bag and finding her way onto the man’s lap to try to get at his sketchbook before he could flip it away. The man saw through her ploy, though, and was scooping up the school bag before it’d even stopped sliding. He inquired, Thranduil assumed from the crestfallen look on her face, after homework. She pulled out some worksheets and he rested his chin on her head looking over her homework with her.

The scene was saccharine sweet. Thranduil had to take off his glasses and rub his face. The man had turned from unreasonably handsome to unreasonably adorable in a matter of seconds. The grade school daughter, though, also reminded Thranduil of two very important things. The man was probably almost 20 years his junior, and, in all likeliness, straight and happily married. He was the absolute worst thing to be ogling instead of getting work done. And yet Thranduil was even more distracted now watching the man try to teach factions, or whatever else, than he had been when he was being brooding and handsome.

Thranduil was not going to get any work done, so he did the only reasonable thing (after another few minutes) and left the café after barely half his usual break. The timing was, apparently, not anticipated by Turiel, as the young lady leapt back and away from the short young man leaning unnecessarily far over the counter towards her.

The young man pushed himself up casually as Thranduil eyed him suspiciously, more for his employee’s reaction than anything else. He wore a polite smile when he met the glaring man’s eyes. “Mr. Greenwood,” he said politely.

Short, scruffy faced, and uninvited, Thranduil suddenly recognized him as one of the Durin boys. He was one of the nephews, he assumed, to an old business partner, and the two’s dealings had ended so ruinously that nearly 25 years later they still couldn’t be left in the same building as one another without trouble. Turiel didn’t need to be told what she’d done wrong. Before the redhead could get a word in, Thranduil pointed to the door.

“Out,” he said, his eyes not faltering for a moment from the young man, Killer, or some equally ridiculous name.

‘Killer’ shrugged lightly, flashing a last smile back at the nervous employee, before leaving.

The glare turned to Turiel after the uninvited guest had left and she instantly started trying to speak all the excuses at once.

“He was just looking at some flowers, and he had legitimate questions, and they thought it was better he came than Thori—,” She was cut off there, a hand raised slightly.

“Why would Thorin come to my shop?” He asked evenly, but underneath there was a sharpness in his voice was made Turiel internally cringe, though she knew better than to make such a face at her boss.

Turiel was horrified to realize she had to be the one to deliver the news she’d just learned. She’d assumed it wasn’t new news, that Thranduil would have certainly have been informed, “Oh… I assumed you—He was looking at the new… buildings… Thorin bought …” She kept her voice calm, but it was a struggle under the darkening look on her bosses face. Thranduil was usually a fair enough boss, strict, yes, and demanding, but only as much as he was on himself. The exception was anything to do with Thorin ‘Oakensheild’. She didn’t know the details of their falling out, it was long before she worked for the man, possibly before she was even born. She knew not to bring it up, though, and she’d just been forced to break that cardinal rule.

Thranduil didn’t even bother replying to her. He pulled out his phone and realized there were, in fact, about a half dozen new e-mails waiting for him. Flipping them open it became suddenly very clear to him what had happened. Much to Thranduil’s chagrin, Thorin would be the new landlord to the entire strip; his landlord.

Thranduil closed his eyes and took deep even breaths. His jaw was set and fists clenched. Turiel waited patiently, bracing herself for any possible reaction. When Thranduil opened his eyes and dropped his hand he seemed calmer.

“Well, get back to work,” he said finally with a slight glare at her idleness. She instantly jumped to do some minor busywork to satisfy her irritable boss.

Retreating back to his office Thranduil tried to decide what Thorin’s angle could be. If the previous owner had been looking to sell the strip, why hadn’t he sold it to Thranduil? It seemed like too big of a coincidence for Thorin to suddenly own this specific strip mall. He was certain the man was up to something. He spent the rest of the day brooding in his office, and not even the thought of handsome café dad could break his ill mood…


	2. Flowers and Favors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil can't escape his handsome distraction and he might just be a little too eager to please. He better cover that up with some snarky commentary for good measure...

Nearly a week passed and Thranduil didn’t see his handsome stranger again. He didn’t have time to worry about him, even if the image of him rolling up his sleeves and settling down with that serious profile was burned into his memory already. Generally, he wasn’t the sort to let a good looking face enamor him, but… it wasn’t just good looks that had captivated him. It would seem desperate to claim to anyone else, but it was his mannerisms as a whole. The intensity he showed to his work, but the relaxed nature of his posture when he took a break, and the tenderness to his daughter, all mixed together to paint such an charming portrait— and that portrait was of a happily married man. He was NOT worrying about happily married men right now.

Sitting in his back office, Thranduil had barely left his desk that week. He was not pleased that his leaseholder had suddenly changed. He would have preferred to just buy the storefront, but he’d been told it wasn’t for sale. That made it just that much more suspicious when the control of his lease had been handed over. There was something going on. It had been a week, though, and he was yet to find some nefarious plan in motion. His lease was intact and upheld through the sale. All the same, he couldn’t believe that Oakenshield was involved and it wasn’t trouble.

The chime sounded from the front door, but Thranduil didn’t get up. Turiel was on the floor, so he could stay in the back to further contemplate possibilities for sabotage against his business.

He was distracted from these efforts soon, though. Thranduil wasn’t used to hearing his employees having to give a negative to guests, as he liked to be well prepared for any request. He leaned back in his chair, the doors between his back office and the store left propped open for just such peaking. And there he was, the man from the cafe. It seemed if he wouldn’t go find a distraction, it would come to him.

What was it they couldn’t do for him? With a slight frown he stood and strode up behind Turiel at the counter. Generally he only dealt with guests if they were belligerent (which happen more than one would imagine at a flower shop), or if they were planning for a large event. Turiel glanced at him as discreetly as possible. He hadn’t left the office in days.

The man was smiling politely and waving a hand, “Ah, I just figured I’d give it a shot since I had a flower shop at my disposal just down the block, no big deal if ya don’t have it,” he was saying. He had a light accent that suggested he’d likely spent his whole life around the lake just behind them. There was a certain style to the Lake people’s dialect that Thranduil had never found charming before, but it just fit the man so well…

Turiel seemed distressed that she couldn’t help such a polite guest. Angry customers, Turiel could deal with even headedly, but disappointing a polite guest was much harder for the young woman. She glanced back helplessly, but was still surprised when Thranduil actually stepped up to take over.

“What don’t we have?” He asked trying to casually eye the younger man now that he had him up close up. He had facial hair, but it was neatly trimmed. His dark hair was only half pulled up this morning, keeping messy bangs out of his face. He was actually a few inches shorter than Thranduil as it turned out, but Thranduil supposed not many people were as tall as he was.

“Ah, Lampra-something speca—,” he stopped his fumbling attempts and pulled on a self-deprecating smile, “I used up my one good pronunciation impressing the cashier here. The ones that look like bleeding hearts?” he simplified.

“Lamprocapnos spectabilis,” Thranduil offered mindlessly, his thick, dark brows furrowing as he looked to the side to Turiel; he couldn’t keep staring at the man. The flash of a smile matched with that apologetically furrowed brow had quickly become too much for him. “Bleeding hearts is the common name,” he added briefly before he addressed Turiel, “Why don’t we have any?” Turiel was opening her mouth to respond, but Thranduil beat her to it, “No. No, you’re right, the addition to Tuesday’s order.” He more mused to himself, going over a mental list of their stock and what orders he’d placed. He finally let his eyes return to the tattooed stranger, “When did you need the arrangement by?” he asked. 

“Ah, don’t really need an ‘arrangement’. Just looking for the flower so I can play with it a bit,” he explained. At a curious raised eyebrow he elaborated, “Need reference for a tattoo I’m designing for a client, but I just wasn’t inspired by the reference shots I was using. Figured the real thing might help me out a lil’.” Thranduil might have guessed so much, but the commentary confirmed that the man he’d been ogling wasn’t just a patron of the café, but the very neighbor he’d been dead set on having kicked out of the strip.

Thranduil nodded, “Well, when would you need the flowers by?” he asked. He had intended to keep eye contact, but his eyes betrayed him and trailed over the man again as he spoke. He had his jacket slung over his shoulder giving a good view of his forearms. The tattoos really did have a nice composition. Laid flat it might not have made as much sense, but curving around the colors and designs used the shape flawlessly. The arm he was inspecting was partially blocked off with a bandage the middle of his inner arm, unfortunately blocking his full assessment of the tattoo. The taped on covering went across the torso of a curling dragon that wrapped around a good portion of his forearm. There didn’t seem room to add any tattoos to the full sleeve. He wondered if the man had just actually hurt himself and made a sad looking bandage for it.

“Well, sooner rather than later,” Bard replied with a light shrug, as he watched the man’s eyes move over his tattoos. He was smiling when Thranduil’s eyes returned to meet his. “A minor modification,” he informed, catching the curious eyes look at the bandage.

“Ah, it seemed a little full to be really adding to it,” Thranduil agreed.

“Well, I’m starting a new section of my life, felt like I needed an update,” he explained. That seemed fair enough. He didn’t know how well one could add to such a complete seeming design, but if it was done as well as the rest, it seemed likely it’d turn out fine.

Turiel had stepped back entirely by then, letting Thranduil take over. He seemed determined, and she was actually rather surprised anyone had tempted her boss out of his brooding. He might have seemed business like still, but Turiel knew the harsh professionalism he took on with customers, and this was actually rather chatty in comparison.

“Well, in any case, I’m sure we could have those flowers for you by tomorrow,” Thranduil promised. Turiel put on an incredulously expression at that, but only from the safety of two paces behind him. They weren’t getting anything in the next day as far as she knew.

“Oh really? That’d be great.” The man’s smile wasn’t the indomitably sweet thing Thranduil’d seen at the café a week ago, but it was still quite charming. He paused for a moment before suddenly reaching out a hand. “Bard, by the way. Own the tattoo parlor on the corner.”

Thranduil took the hand reached over the counter in his and shook it, noting the simple gold band on the hand he shook. Bard’s smile quirked to one side, as if he hadn’t expected such a firm handshake from the florist. Thranduil was used to business deals and men who judged one another by the firmness of a handshake at the beginning of a meeting, though, so he was prepared to impress. Thranduil found the smile infectious, turning the corner of his lips up just a tad. “Thranduil Greenleaf,” he replied.

“Really?” Bard asked, “And you’re a florist. How… expected,” he noted.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow, but otherwise kept his professional expression intact. Was he being teased? “I might disagree, the focus is more on the corolla rather than the leaves in my line of work.” Bard blinked, “The flower,” he clarified.

“Ah, well, fine, I’ll give you that. Gardener might fit a bit better, maybe topiary sculptor? Ah, anyway, I retract my jibe,” he said putting up his hand in defeat. Thranduil kept his skeptically raised eyebrow and Bard floundered, it seemed, just a little at the dry look. Thranduil kept back the amused expression that threatened to fight its way onto his face. Enduring an unamused look felt like just reward for his trying to tease someone he just met.

“Well, I have to go open up shop but, I’ll stop by then,” Bard said after a moment, stepping back from the counter.

“We’ll have your bleeding hearts ready tomorrow, Mr….,” Thranduil trailed off, expectantly.

“Ha, ah, no. Just Bard is fine,” he said. He tugged on his jacket and Thranduil allowed himself to briefly enjoy that little flash of skin that peaked out from under his shirt when he lifted his arms. He also allowed for the fact that it might have just been a bit too long since he’d been on a date, considering his shameless level of ogling that continued as the man headed to the door. His eye flicked up and he nodded politely as Bard half turned to wave at the door.

There was a brief silence at the door shut behind their first guest of the day.

“Sir…” Turiel finally spoke, “May I ask something?” 

“Hm.”

“What… was that?” Thranduil’s frown instantly crushed her boldness, though it could not possibly stop her internal amusement. “Sir, but, our orders won’t be in by tomorrow. Where are we going to get the flower for him?” she covered with a new question.

He waved it off all the same, retreating to his office, “I’ll pick it up on the way to work from the Lórien Shop,” he said dismissively. He didn’t mention that that shop was 30 minutes out of his way, and Turiel didn’t think it wise to mention.

 

Bard had had a long night. He was, admittedly, not the most business savvy person. He was not sure what convinced him he could run his own business at all, at times. He had no training in this sort of thing. His grandfather, who might have mentored him, had passed away when he was far too young to learn anything but a sense of wonder and admiration for tattooing. That, unfortunately, didn’t help him much as he tried to wade through the new lease information he had been sent. He didn’t think he should have to sign a new lease just because the landlord changed, but he hadn’t found anything very different in the new stack of papers yet. It was hard to concentrate and wade through the legal jargon though with three kids with the stomach flu, though...

 

He arrived the next morning, tired and late. The whole thing might have made for an entirely dismal morning, as he parked behind the shop and moved to the back entrance, if he hadn’t been spotted by the florist, who just happened to appear out back while he fumbled with the keys.

“Good morning,” Thranduil called over across the back parking lot when he’d spotted him. He had a lovely voice. Bard hadn’t expected such a deep voice out of the man when he’d met him. He also hadn’t expected the man’s long, white blond hair to be in a fishtail braid, gracefully laid over his shoulder. Tilda would likely claim she’d ‘kill a man’ for a chance at braiding the silky locks, and Bard smiled a little to himself at the thought.

“Morning,” he waved awkwardly, bagged lunch in hand, papers and sketch book tucked under his arm as he tried to unlock the door and hold his coffee as well. He looked down to jiggle at the lock, as it tended to stick, and was surprised to find the man walking over when he looked back up.

There was a commanding presence to even his gait. He’d had a hard time ignoring him whenever he’d shown up at the café. Even as he’d casually scanned the place, Bard had felt under some level of scrutiny. Something about this florist just demanded you pay attention to him. He wished he had time to, but he was already late for opening his shop. He didn’t think anyone would be coming in right as he opened, but it was the principle of the thing. A business should open when it says it does.

Thranduil had strolled close enough that they weren’t shouting at each other, though he spoke still from a distance, not troubling himself too much. “If you want to stop by for those bleeding hearts,” he was starting. Bard finally got the door open and shoved it open with his shoulder, turning back to the blond.

“Ah, I gotta open and then it’s just me until my lunch, but I’ll definitely stop by at some point today,” he said. He regretted not having time to chat up his neighbor when he appeared so willing. Thranduil didn’t seem like the type that would generally strike up friendly banter with someone just because they shared a building complex.

“If it’s a hassle, I could probably have someone drop it off,” Thranduil offered. Bard opened his mouth to object on principle; politeness usually dictating someone offer, just as politeness dictate he refuse, but he glanced at Thranduil and it was clear that this wasn’t a man who made offers he didn’t mean. He was an odd combination; depending on what side you caught of him he either seemed to be the far too fittingly pretty florist, or the harsh business like thing he’d seen scanning over papers. Ethereal yet hard and sharp. Maybe that was a dramatic way of putting it, but Bard felt the man deserved some little bit of poetry for his oddness.

“I’ll even wave the deliver free,” Thranduil tossed in. Bard realized that he’d been silent a bit too long. “Just this once,” he tagged on, and his tone hinted at something playful under that even expression.

Bard just grinned because there was no use arguing; it’d clearly already been decided. “A’right, that’d be great,” he said, raising his travel mug in mock cheers to his kind offer.

 

Bard had barely gotten the doors unlocked and settled down before the vintage bell on the door jingled and he glanced up to see Thranduil stepping in with a beautiful little arrangement in hand. It was tiny and adorable, in a container that was probably only 3” wide.

Their eyes met and Bard blinked. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course Thranduil was the prompt type. “Well, shit, you made it look so nice, I’m gonna feel guilty tearing that apart now,” he complained without thought of a proper greeting.

The man strode over, setting the little arrangement on his front counter. “It’s yours to do with as you see fit.” His eyes weren’t on Bard as he spoke. He was looking around the shop critically, as if inspecting the place. When he finally turned back to Bard he found a curious, expectant expression waiting for him, and his evaluations. Thranduil frowned a little deeper, his eyebrows creasing, as if something were amiss about the place.

Bard was surprised to find that he felt a tiny bit self-conscious, though he didn’t know why he’d care what a florist thought of his décor. He’d agreed to stick with a vintage 50’s feel, getting a small grant from the city for any bit of authenticity he could bring. Really, though, he wouldn’t have done it any other way. He’d recreated the feeling of his grandfather’s old tattoo parlor to the best of his ability. He’d only had his very young memories and old photos to go off of, but he’d thought it had turned out rather nice! Bard couldn’t figure what about his shop could cause such a serious expression.

“It’s supposed to look like the old Dale’s Tattoo Parlor that used to be on the boardwalk. Kinda a homage,” he didn’t care if Thranduil disapproved, his opinion wasn’t that important anyway. But still…

Thranduil shifted his feet, a thoughtful expression on his face and he nodded, “Oh yeah...” he said as if that filled in some blank for him. There was another brief pause before he finally gave his assessment. “It’s… adorable,” he said, shaking his head. Bard was a bit surprised by the word paired with such a grim expression. “I wasn’t expecting the whole retro style to continue on inside,” he said.

Bard snorted, amused at the serious business man expression he’d worn for such words. “Well, thank you.”

He was doing a fairly good job ignoring Bard, even if he was talking to him. Instead of scanning around the shop, he was now managing to not look at Bard by flipping through the binder of example tattoos for the shop.

“These actually aren’t all that bad,” Thranduil mused, not seeming to realize the insult implied. Bard let it slide. He wasn’t feeling argumentative; honestly, he was just a little distracted by the tall man leaning over and casually pulling his braid over his shoulder, fingers lingering in his hair, blue eyes seriously scanning the pages.

“The water color style ones are rather nice.”

“Hm?” Bard’s eyes flicked up from the fingers twisting up the tuft at the end of his braid, “Ah, yeah. People are really into the lil’ bit more freestyle pieces recently. Water color, abstracts, Trash Polka” he said.

“Trash polka?” Thranduil raised a dark eyebrow at the odd sounding name. Bard couldn’t blame him. He supposed that would sound a little odd out of context.

“It’s a style of tattoos that started in Germany. All red and black, bold sort of style,” He gave an incredibly brief explanation, not thinking a fuller one would interest the man.

“But why ‘trash polka’?” he pressed, seeming rather serious.

“It’s realism and bold graphics collaged together to create a contrasting, chaotic sort of style… It sort of makes sense once you see it” Bard shrugged lightly, “Nothing really beats a good traditional tattoo, though, in my opinion.” Bard didn’t have much in the way of traditional American style tattoos, at least not on the skin he was showing. Thranduil gave a brief rescan of his arms, then eyes flicked over his body, seeming to note the incongruity between the comment and the styles he wore. Their eyes caught for a moment, and there was a glimmer, a spark, something in them, that made Bard want to offer to let him find them, if he was curious. His lips parted to let the comment slip—their eye contact broke. Thranduil looked back down to the page and Bard caught his tongue.

“The traditional style ones in here are the ones you do then?” Thranduil asked as he paged through the book a bit more.

“Those?” he asked, waving at the binder. Thranduil nodded, stopping on a tattoo with no outlines, colors blended in a swath of a paintbrush stroke. “Well, yeah, they would be” he said smiling a bit, “seeing as how you’re looking through my portfolio.”

Thranduil paused and looked up at him, “All of these are by you? Don’t people usually specialize?” he asked, sounding skeptical. The styles ranged from portraits to abstract and hit most things in between. Bard didn’t half commit to a style when he did it, and he didn’t often turn down a challenge when requested. As such, he had tattooed a wide range of styles, and the bit of perfectionist in him didn’t allow a halfassed attempt at any

“People tend to,” he agreed, “I just couldn’t quite pin down a style for myself, so I kept trying on new ones.”

“Fairly successfully, it seems,” Thranduil noted. “I had assumed this was all your artist’s on staff.”

“No, still in the process of really getting the staff nailed down,” he said with a slight sigh. “I mean, Sig is apprenticing, and we’ve been looking but, well…” Bard sighed lightly, the task having been a frustrating one.

“Well, I think you might do all right, considering,” he said flipping the binder shut. Bard smiled at the compliment and when Thranduil looked at him he seemed caught off guard by it. His eyes hardened a little. “These seem nice, and I’ll give you that some of them might be acceptable, on the right people,” he conceded, challenge barely hid just behind the concession. He seemed determined to make up for the compliment and kindness of the flowers by giving Bard a hard time, suddenly. “But these are the tattoos you liked. You must get clients that come in asking for less thoughtful sorts of tattoos.”  
“Not all tattoos are wrapped up in symbolism, no.” he agreed, unconcerned by that fact.  
“You have to have done some that you thought were just plain stupid, though, right?” he asked bluntly.

“I’m not here to judge what people think is important in their lives,” Bard replied.

“But I still have to imagine you know some of these people regret them afterwards.”

“It’s possible.” Bard admitted, shrugging.

“And don’t you feel guilty about it? Don’t you feel it’s irresponsible to assist in people permanently marring their bodies?” he asked. Bard wasn’t sure if Thranduil even believed it as strongly as he said it, but it was clear he wasn’t going to back down, regardless.

“Do you feel guilty selling flowers to weddings?” Bard replied.

Thranduil paused, suspiciously eyeing Bard before replying, “No, why should I?”

“Well, you’re aiding in a life altering change in their life styles, you know. Do you feel guilty knowing some of those marriages won’t end well?” Bard asked.

“That’s not equivalent at all. I’m just providing the flowers,” Thranduil scoffed.

“And I’m just giving them a little ink, but fine,” Bard waved his hand, “Should the priest feel guilty then?”

“It’s a decision made out of love—“

Bard cut in, hand moving to his covered forearm and the newest addition to his tattoos unconsciously, “A tattoo often is too.”

“People can get a divorce,” Thranduil said flatly.

“And people can get laser removal too,” Bard countered, “And I do great cover ups,” he added a smirky bit of advertisement, “Which mistake is going to cost you more in the end? How many thousands of dollars are wasted on a wedding that just ended in a costly divorce? Which do you think hurts more in the end?” Bard might have stayed fairly calm, but he was ready for more of a fight. He was used to defending his tattoos and his job to strangers and friends alike. He was surprised to catch a pleased look in the florist’s eyes instead of contempt.

“So… you’re anti-marriage then?” He asked, glancing down at Bard’s hands. His hand automatically went to his wedding ring. He’d moved it to his right hand instead of his left, but he couldn’t bring himself to take it off entirely. He turned it idly on his finger. It’d been meant for the other hand and always felt just a tiny bit loose on this finger.

“Nah, nothing against it,” he said, “Just tryin’ to point out your inconsistencies.” He put his smile back on, “And are you really all that against tattoos?”

“I have no qualms with a well thought out, discreet tattoo,” he said, his eyes drifting over Bard’s sleeves. Judging by how often he stared at them, he didn’t mind them either. “I have one even,” he informed, eyes flicking up to meet Bard’s with a mischievous glint in them.

“Let me guess, under your non-dominate arm on the ribs, small, floral but more foliage than flower, loose play on traditional style,” he rattled off. Thranduil stared, actually seeming just a little flustered under his placid expression, and Bard couldn’t help his smirk.

“Am I so predictable?” he asked, taken off guard, his hand moving slightly towards the hidden tattoo, fingers rubbing over his couple of ribs on his left.

Bard chuckled, “No. Well, in a way, but I’ve been around tattoo parlors since I was born. Ya get a good instinct for these sorts of things.”

“I suppose I’ll have to endeavor to be a little more novel,” Thranduil mused, leaning heavily on one hand and pushing the loose strands of hair back behind his ear with the other. Bard was glad he had. Years of blond little girls with messy hair had given him reflexes to neaten stray locks, and he’d nearly lifted his hand to do it for him. That might have been… a bit awkward.

“I wouldn’t worry about novelty too much.” Bard reassured.

“Oh?” It seemed like Thranduil was managing to unperceptively shift down into Bard’s personal space more and more. The movement seemed to dare Bard to say something. “What’s so novel about me?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve never met a florist who can scare away a half dozen drunk 19 year olds with half a glance before,” Bard noted.

Thranduil put on a thoughtful expression, likely remembering the rowdy bunch of college students that had left the tattoo parlor during its opening week that he’d scared the other way. “I have a talent for scaring off delinquents,” he agreed after a few moments thought.

“Don’t scare them all away. Some of them are my clients,” Bard requested with a laugh. He really wasn’t sure when Thranduil had leaned in so far over. He never noticed him moving, but he seemed closer every time he took stock of him.

“Well, I don’t make any promises, but—“, whatever Thranduil’s ‘but’ would have been was cut off by the door chiming. Suddenly Thranduil was standing up straight. With Bard sitting, the tall man felt miles away. Bard greeted the new customer and Thranduil said brief goodbyes, politely not interrupting his actual work. Bard barely caught the smile he wore as he slipped out.

It was nearly an hour later that it dawned on Bard that he hadn't paid for the flowers he was picking apart,

 

Thranduil Greenleaf did not run from his problems, but he sure as hell might power walk away. He would have cursed at himself, were he already in the privacy of his office. For god’s sake, the man was surely part of a happy little household, and he’d barely kept himself from winking and blowing kisses at the tattoo artist. He’d been practically waiting at the backdoor to catch him that morning, and couldn’t even wait a respectable half hour to bring the flowers over to him. Even when he’d tried to throw the man off, Bard had remained obstinate and yet still charming, precisely how Thranduil liked his men. Thranduil would have to be careful of how much attention he let himself give this man…


	3. Café Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thranduil isn't going to go to the cafe looking for Bard, and then promptly does.

Thranduil usually stuck to his decisions once he’d made them. After dropping off the small flower arrangement he had told himself that he wouldn’t return to the coffee shop again, at least not around 3. He had also told himself he wouldn’t think about handsome tattooed man just a couple doors down from his business. The trouble was, he had very little control over the later, and once those efforts failed, the former soon followed suit.

Satisfaction and dismay mixed when he sat a few tables down from where Bard had previously taken a seat near the window and found no Bard coming in after him. It may have only been five minutes, but Bard had always been there before him previously. He wondered if he’d been too hasty in assuming his consistent schedule. He wondered if Bard had taken the day off, though it hadn’t sounded like he had much help to allow him days off.

He was considering all the reasons he shouldn’t have assumed he’d see him there with increasing dissatisfaction, as he’d broken his resolve and had not even gotten the rewards of it, when Bard strolled in late to the café. He seemed to scan the back of the café before getting his coffee and mindlessly walking to his usual table. He settled down and was flipping open his sketchbook when he glanced up to see Thranduil, who ever so casually glanced up as well. Their eyes met and Bard smiled, raising a cup to the blond three tables down. Thranduil returned the gesture and there was a hesitation before Bard nodded slightly and went to his usual break activities. Thranduil went on with his break as usual as well, enjoying his handsome backdrop.

The next day was much the same, though Thranduil came second this time and chose his seat three tables down again. The third day when he sat a few tables away, Bard stood instead of nodding. He scooped up his things and walked over. Thranduil watched with raised eyebrows as Bard walked directly to his table without a hint of hesitation.

“It seems, Mr. Greenleaf, that we’re break buddies,” he stated definitely. He set his things down across from Thranduil, “So, mind if I join you?”

“By all means,” Thranduil said, hand gesturing that the other half of the table was his to take.

“Not that I mean to bother you if you have work to do,” Bard noted eyeing the tablet stood up and papers to its side. Thranduil always preferred reading things on paper rather than a screen. He supposed that was probably his age showing a little, but he didn’t care.

“I have a little to get through,” he nodded. His breaks were always used as time to look at his other business ventures. He took a breather from his floral shops, but not work, on his breaks. Bard always seemed to have his sketchbook set out or some worn in, abused book in hand, pages folded around to permanently destroy the spine. Thranduil hadn’t yet caught what sort of novels endured his cruel treatment.

Bard nodded and set to his sketching and the two were silent for a time. Despite being the one to institute it, Thranduil kept glancing up from his work, impatient with the quiet. He was getting nothing done regardless. It was laughable for the man to think he could saunter over here and Thranduil would be able to work with him two feet away. He had to know how much of a distraction he was…

“What are you working on?” he asked, casually, barely lifting his eyes from reading his e-mails.

“Lettering,” he said, “Mostly just getting an idea of how to fit it in the space they gave me, it’s a bit oddly shaped.”

“Ah…” Thranduil couldn’t quite see the sketch from his vantage point and didn’t ask to see it. Bard didn’t insist. They fell into silence for a time again.

“What did you need the bleeding hearts for?” Thranduil broke the silence again. He couldn’t help himself. He really ought to have more self-control. He should have ignored the man, even if he’d insisted on sitting with him. Better yet, he should have sent him away. He was primed to fall into dangerous territory with a family man.

Bard brightened a bit and Thranduil nearly cringed at how endearing the excitement was. “Ah, yeah, I’m actually doing that one Tuesday. They are very excited about it, so I suppose I have to thank you for your speedy delivery.” He flipped the sketchbook a few pages back and slid it around and towards Thranduil.

Thranduil reached over and took it inspecting the sketch. There were many soft sketchy lines underneath, unerased, but the final line was done over in a much darker, crisp line. The piece had the bleeding hearts arching over some fanciful lettering, and it gave the impression of an entrance into a fairy world, soft, mystical and playful.

“It’s lovely. You have a good sense of composition, but I suppose your arms are already a good testament to that,” he complimented before he thought to check himself.

“Heh, well, I certainly don’t regret them,” he said with a smile. Thranduil resisted the urge to flip through the rest of the man’s sketchbook, which seemed rude without permission, and handed it back to Bard. As the tattooed man took it, Thranduil got a glimpse at the addition to his sleeve, the bandage now gone. A twisted, wrought iron looking arrow pierced the dragon that curled around the arm. The dragon, which had seemed fearsome before, took on a new expression in light of the pierced chest. The snarl twisted instead into agony of a dying beast. The transformation was impressive.

“You slayed your dragon,” he noted.

Bard’s fingers instantly went to his new tattoo. He nodded. “The dragon’s been dead for a while now, but it seemed like only now did I really get rid of him,” he replied cryptically. Thranduil eyed him. He had to consider that this handsome dad he was falling for just might have been part of the Dragon gang that had plagued the city until recently. Their leader had been done in by one rival gang or another and the streets had been cleaned up since and—wait. Not that he was ‘falling for’ Bard by any means. That would certainly be an overstatement. It would be a horrible idea as well, though, so was sharing breaks with him, and here they were.

“Hm… So… do you design all your own tattoos and have someone else do them? I can’t imagine you can tattoo yourself,” Thranduil inquired, finding he’d completely given up on his work for the break.

Bard laughed, “No, I didn’t do these myself,” he said of his arms, “I don’t always design my tattoos either, some of them I did, but if I’m working with an artist, letting them tattoo me, I tend to have respect for them, and their style, and we’ll work something out to fit what I’m looking for. Otherwise, it would feel like a waste to go to them, ya know?” He spoke with a respect for his fellow artists that made Thranduil reconsider his feelings for tattoo artists as a whole, just a little. At the very least, Bard had won him over, he couldn’t deny that.

 

After that day, the two met nearly every day. Thranduil’s schedule had still been in flux, to a certain extent, at the flower shop, and so it really wasn’t _rearranging_ his schedule to have their days match, so much as settling it down. Their conversations were not in depth, given the set brevity of their time together. Thranduil did not get to know Bard’s life, so much as his humor, wit, and personality. The conversation style suited him just fine, though he often turned to teasing the other man on their breaks.

 

“I would think it would be troubling to be the cause of many a drunken mistake,” Thranduil said one day. Bard rolled his eyes, though he didn’t show true offense to the comment, Thranduil still felt obliged to add, “Though I take that back, partially. I do believe I’ve seen you turn away drunks wandering in to get, presumably regrettable tattoos.”

Bard cracked a smile, “Don’t paint me as too noble,” he warned.

“Why?” Thranduil inquired, though his whole tone suggested a light jest, as if nobility and tattoo artist still couldn’t realistically be put together, “I think that’s a kind thing to do. You lose a quick buck because of your morals? What’s not noble about that?” He wasn’t entirely teasing, he did appreciate the selectiveness.

“No one likes tattooing drunks,” Bard assured, shaking both his hands slightly, pencil caught woven into his fingers of one side.

“Too rowdy?” the blond guessed, leaning heavily on one hand. He liked watching Bard speak, he tended to use his hands and unnecessarily expressive faces.

“Nah, they’re bleeders.” He explained, waving off Thranduil’s guess. Thranduil raised an eyebrow, “They bleed a lot more and it’s annoying as hell, might wipe off my stencil trying to get rida the blood.” He leaned in conspiratorially, gesturing with the pencil laden hand, “See, what you to is, ya get the drunks to decide what they want and schedule ‘em for another day,” He assured with a playful smirk on his face, “Of course with a bit of a down payment for keeping the slot open and the design.”

Thranduil blinked, “That’s almost clever, if a little underhanded.”

“Nah, just practical. Do you know how many college students have come in hammered, wanting something tattooed on their face just since some kids’ spring break has started? They love wandering in from the pier,” He sighed slightly, but didn’t look to be honestly upset. He seemed to have a good handle on those sorts of challenges in his profession.

“You have to feel a little guilty about the face tattoos at least. That’s the sort of thing that can ruin someone’s future,” Thranduil said a little more seriously.

Bard dusted the comment off, “Don’t worry, I’m not ruining anyone’s life.”

“So you don’t do face tattoos?”

“Oh, no, I have, but face, neck, and hand tattoos I only do on people already heavily tattooed or with some already there,” he assured, “I wouldn’t be starting anyone off with a face tattoo, though.”

“I’ll rest at ease, then, knowing my noble tattoo artist will be protecting the drunken youth from at least the worst of life choices,” Thranduil said dramatically. Bard rolled his eyes but didn’t argue that one.

 

After a few days the two men exchanged phone numbers. Thranduil knew he shouldn’t take that next step. He had the distinct feeling that their precariously perched friendship was sure to topple if he was given any excuse to press forward. Bard took his jibes with good humor and wit enough to even turn a few around, and Thranduil found himself growing far too attached to him.

 

Thranduil received his first text from Bard two weeks into their official acquaintanceship. It read:

“late start. session running over.  
wont make lunch sorry UnU”

Thranduil stared, taking a long moment to read the odd smilie at the end for what it was. He was glad to be in the office because he was sure the smile on his face was anything but dignified.

“No problem.” He texted back then, not able to resist added, “Cute face.” It was not flirting, of course, it was teasing.

“dont text much. asked daughter for face advice.”

Thranduil smiled to himself. He imagined the adorable blond thing he’d seen a few weeks ago checking over his texts for him, insistently adjusting the capitalization to make the face just right…

 

After missing their lunch date, Bard was troubled to find that Thranduil had not taken his usual table the next day. In fact, Bard nearly could have missed the florist entirely, except he practically felt the glowering, seething frustration emanating from the far corner of the café. He hesitated after a glance at the man glaring at his work. He didn’t even have a drink yet, but he seemed settled in.

Bard walked over to the counter and ordered his own coffee, then, glancing back over his shoulder to the table furthest possible from the register, he ordered Thranduil’s coffee too, at least his best guess at how he took it.

“He likes it with sugar, but not too much,” the woman at the register informed.

Bard looked up and was surprised to find the young woman from Greenleaf Florists standing behind a different register today. He raised an inquiring eyebrow, but the redhead just put on a customer pleasing smile. “I’ll get you what he gets,” she promised, seeming sure of her knowledge. Bard took the help and put a decent tip into her jar for good measure. Whatever was going on, he had to wonder if the redhead was part of Thranduil’s bad mood. Looking at the intensity of the man across the cafe, he wouldn’t wish his ill will on anyone.

 

Bard set Thranduil’s coffee between his papers and tablet, and took a seat across from him. He glanced up, seeming to want to snap something, or yell at Bard for his presumptions, but he didn’t. He sighed irritably, though.

“Has he sent _you_ this farce of a legal document?” Thranduil snipped, anger seething just behind his teeth, but, to his credit, his voice was still even and in check.

“Who?” Bard asked, keeping a calm voice as he sat down, putting his jacket on the back of the chair and rolled up his sleeves. Thranduil’s eyes were on his arms, as always. He wondered if the florist knew how blatantly he stared every time Bard rolled up his sleeves. He wasn’t about to take offense to someone admiring his tattoos, though. He was fond of them too.

“Oakensheild,” he said as if it were obvious. “The man is trying to ruin my new shop—I bet it’s only my lease terms he’s trying to adjust,” he theorized at Bard’s confusion.

“Oh,” Bard nodded, “Yeah…” he sighed a little, remembering the papers he’d put off looking over. He really should finish that, but, well, there were other things to do and no one had sent him a threatening e-mail or letter about an impending due date on it so he’d put it aside. “I didn’t see any noteworthy changes in mine but, uh, I’m not fluent in contract jargon, so, it’s a bit hard for me to say.”

“Don’t sign it.”

Bard looked up, surprised by the venom under Thranduil’s tone. The man was usually an elegant sort of cantankerous. He was grumpy, yes, but he did cranky with class. Today he seemed to have lost that polish just a bit. Bard eyed him, unsure of how to proceed without the buffer of teasing condescension that usually save him from any real barbed comments.

“I was a little wary of Thorin at first meeting him too, but he’s… been helpful enough. He was the one who helped me get the restoration funding and location set up. He was a big part of the clean-up of this city, ya know? I don’t think he’d screw me over _now_.” Bard spoke with caution, but also certainly in his tone. It seemed excessively cynical to think otherwise. If asked, Bard would agree that the sudden switching of leases seemed sketchy to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to think that Thorin was trying to screw him over, or Thranduil either. 

“He and his family are a plague on what would otherwise be a pleasant little town here, and don’t believe for a moment that he’s doing anything for you that isn’t actually just to benefit himself.” Thranduil’s eyes flicked to the redheaded barista.

Bard glanced over his shoulder then back at Thranduil. He was fairly certain he’d regret the question even as it came out of his mouth, “Didn’t that barista used to work in your shop?”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, glowering at the girl. It was a subtle change in expression, but Thranduil could do amazing things with the slightest shift in his face. He turned his eyes back to Bard, “She insisted on having one of Oakensheild’s nephews in my shop, spying, no doubt, and can you believe she started _dating_ the creature?”

Creature? That seemed a bit intense, even for Thranduil’s occasional flare for dramatic vocabulary. Bard was starting to suspect Thranduil and Thorin must have had some sort of past. He supposed that didn’t surprise him. Thorin had a way of getting around in a lot of different social groups. In the years he’d known him, though, he never seemed malicious as Thranduil seemed to think him; driven by selfish motivations, maybe, but not intending to hurt anyone. He even seemed to genuinely care about the wellbeing of Ereborn.

Bard’s silence and raised eyebrow must have prompted the next outburst.

“She’s a fine florist and a good employee,” he conceded, “but I was _not_ coming back from every break to find a Durin in my shop distracting my workers. He was clearly sent to cause trouble. So, I gave her an ultimatum and she made the misguided decision that having the scruffy little thing around was more important than her job.”

Bard stare at the cold explanation, “Thranduil…. How old is she? 17? And you made them into star crossed lovers, torn apart by feuding families. Of course she’d going to run off with him!” Bard couldn’t help but laugh. Bard wondered if Thranduil could honestly not see how much more enticing he must have made Thorin’s nephew to his employee. Hell, he’d have dated someone out of pure spite at that age if he’d been told by his boss he wasn’t allowed to.

Thranduil furrowed his brows seriously, “Oh, don’t make it sound so dramatic.”

“You’re the one that made them Romeo and Juliet, buddy, not me,” Bard insisted.

“Oh—oh please! This is nothing like Romeo and Juliet. That is ridiculous…,” Thranduil insisted.

“Think there’s somewhere on the boardwalk to get some fake poison, maybe a dagger?” Bard teased.

“Tsh, stop,” Thranduil replied, though he seemed to waver a tiny bit. Bard waited patiently. There was a long silence before his lip twitched, “I might have ordered in some hemlock and a few plants from the nightshade family recently,” he admitted.

“Dear lord, you can’t be the Capulets _and_ the apothecary, Thran,” Bard teased, pleased as he got the florist to look at least a little less grim.

“Fine, yes, I’ll consider removing classically poisonous flowers from my office,” Thranduil replied with a slight huff.

“You’d better if you’re going to be inciting reenactments of Shakespearean tragedies.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes, but seemed in a slightly more relaxed mood as his eyes turned back down to his work, “In any case…. I hope you haven’t signed this new lease. There’s absolutely no need to change any of the terms, and you are not obligated to sign anything new, as he took on the current tenants’ contracts as they were when he bought the building,” Thranduil informed, serious again. “He cannot legally make you, or evict you until the previous contract has run out.”

Bard hesitated and sighed, “Look, I would rather not be on bad terms with my landlord while I’m trying to start up a new business, ya know?” Bard said, shaking his head. This really seemed all over dramatic to him, “He might just prefer his own contracts so he knows all the terms and doesn’t have to mill through someone else’s for little details,” Bard offered. He honestly didn’t think, even if the man had admittedly been less helpful more recently, that he was actually doing anything mean spirited.

“Sure, he’d bother to have a whole new contract made for no reason,” Thranduil scoffed, causing Bard’s frown to deepen. “Look, legally you don’t have to sign anything, and if he tries to evict tenants we can take him to court,” he said simply.

“What?” That was the absolute last thing Bard wanted to deal with, court dates and legal, well, anything.

“What, what?” Thranduil asked, clearly not understanding what the problem could be.

“Thranduil,” he stated evenly, “I don’t have the time or money to be suing people on the principle of things. Hell, I barely have time for anything but work, kids, and sleep!”

“So, you’re just going to let him bully you because you’re too lazy?” Thranduil snipped back.

“Lazy?” Bard repeated back in a snap before he could even think about his tone. The harshness in his voice was apparently enough to force the florist to reassess his commentary.

The blond put up a hand, “I apologize. That might be a bit unfair.”

Bard was still a bit prickled by the comment though, “You’re damn right it was.” Thranduil raised a curious eyebrow, apparently surprised that an apology didn’t win him instant forgiveness. Bard assumed that getting the man to admit mistake was probably rare enough that he was used to the shock of a ‘sorry’ overshadowing any slight he might have inflicted. Bard couldn’t accept ‘lazy’ as an assumed character trait though. No, that one rubbed him the wrong way. “Do you know how long it’s been since I took a day off? Even an evening off?” He might have been glaring too seriously for such a comment, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, “And now you’re bitching and moaning through my 15 minute lunch,” he tagged on for good measure, though he lightened his voice for that last bit.

 

Thranduil stared. He’d assumed Bard to be all politeness, or at least good natured where his manners were lacking. “I suppose this _is_ a bit of a stressful topic for a break…” he conceded carefully. He wasn’t sure why he honestly cared if he was offending someone who had the gall not to take his business advice, but maybe he had been a little thoughtless in his word choice. He flipped his tablet face down over his papers, effectively putting the topic aside.

“He did turn into a dick half way through the renovation process,” Bard admitted after a pause. Thranduil perked up. “I mean, it’s not like it was a giant grant, but the store front was part of the city project, and the money was going through him, since he was heading a lot of those projects. Uh, but, anyway, when it came to getting reimbursed, suddenly he was all busy and hard to get in contact with…”

Thranduil nodded with a sympathetic, knowing expression. Yes, of course he could have told him that was how Oakensheild was. “All the more reason not just sign anything he sends you,” Thranduil noted, and Bard sighed heavily.

“Alright,” Bard announced suddenly, startling Thranduil a little, “Enough of that topic.” He frowned, “Really, it’s ruining one of the few nice moments I get in a day,” he informed.

Thranduil took note of this comment. Bard enjoyed his breaks with him, and that little part of his brain which refused the reminder that flirting would be a horrible decision delighted in this knowledge. “Fine. I won’t ruin your break,” he said with a little smile despite the fight with Oakensheild he could feel looming.

“Thank you,” he said with still too stern of a look.

“You really are far too stressed. It doesn’t suit you.” Thranduil leaned his head on one hand and finally sipped the coffee he had been brought. It was exactly how he liked it, possibly the best he’d had from the café. He resisted the urge to glare at the redhead behind the counter.

“Ha. Doesn’t suit me? That’s a damn shame, given my life at the moment,” Bard replied, finding the idea of an ‘unstressed’ Bard to be humorous. He had never seemed so troubled before, but maybe, when Thranduil thought about the serious knot in his brow that formed when he was sitting alone, or the intensity of his work…. Well, maybe those were products of a man who is afraid to fail, who’s put too much pressure on himself.

“Sounds like you need a little more than a 15 minutes break,” Thranduil noted.

“I think I just need a drink,” Bard replied, with a single dry laugh, but the smile that followed was more sincere, “Seems like you need one too,” he added, glancing at the paper work.

“I could use more than one when dealing with people like this,” he said, gesturing to the paperwork.

“A’right. Let’s get some drinks then,” Bard said decisively. “There’s a place not far. Ya free after close?”

Thranduil blinked, staring at Bard, who just smiled back at him. When was the last time Thranduil had gone out to the bar after work? Hell, it’d been a while since he’d been on any sort of date. Not that the man was asking him out on a date, but still! It was utterly awful of a handsome young man to be asking him out to the bar so utterly platonically. It was nearly downright rude.

Bard was still waiting expectantly for a reply. Thranduil smirked, though every sensible part of his brain told his to stop, “I’m free after work.” He leaned further on his hand, “When do you get off?” he asked in his best casually flirtatious voice. This man had a family, what was he doing?

“10. You?” Bard asked.

“I’ll be around until then,” he assured, his fingers starting to play through his hair lightly, twisting a lock smoothly. He really needed to stop. He wasn’t going to get anywhere, at best, and be a homewrecker at worst.

“A’right. We can meet around back a little after 10 then?” Bard asked, seeming just far too innocently excited to be going out for drinks. It was painfully adorable from the tattooed man. Thranduil never should have started this…

“Sounds perfect,” he assured in a voice he knew was inappropriate and a slight quirk in his eyebrow that emphasized the smirk he really shouldn’t be wearing. He glanced at his watch and started collecting his things. He hadn’t bothered to read the time on the watch, but he knew it was time for him to leave, before he could do any more blatant flirting, like leaning over the table and kissing the man. He internally groan at himself, but carried on calmly externally. “I should be getting back to the shop, though.”

“Right, right. Me too probably,” Bard said, automatically seeming to trust Thranduil’s sense of time over his own.

Thranduil gave a hasty farewell before he hustled out of the café. He could barely keep it together at the mere thought of going out to drinks with the younger man. He was in trouble if he had to keep himself in check after any amount of alcohol. He was going to shove that man up against a wall and ruin this cute little friendship they had going if he didn’t watch himself, most likely winning himself a good solid punch to the jaw in the process. Yes. An evening of drinking and NOT flirting with this man was going to be trying and painful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Best part of my entire outline for this fic:
> 
> "-He’s all like, yo! Fo’ real? When was the last time that I went out to a bar after close??? This is stupid. This isn’t a date. He’s straight. All the cute ones are straight. Oh no I’ve been staring at him for like 2 minutes and haven’t responded.  
>   “yeah sure, whatever.” Wink, smile, flirt.  
>    Why are you flirting he has a family! Goddamn homewrecker! Staaaahp  
>   Seductive eyebrow waggle.  
>    You whore……."


	4. Up Against A Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting out the time between his shop closing and Bard's, Thranduil receives a call that just might ruin his evening plans, or maybe he'll do that himself...

Thranduil hadn’t actually had a reason to be at his shop until 10. Greenleafs closed at 8 and it didn’t take two hours to clean up. He shouldn’t have agreed to go out for drinks at all. He didn’t know what he’d get out of the whole affair. He couldn’t, or at least shouldn’t, be trying to seduce this man, and he’d been having a hard enough time keeping himself in check sober.  
Alone in the back room of the shop, he worked on a piece he’d planned to do the next morning, to kill the time between closings. Despite the myriad of reasons he should be texting an excuse not to go out that evening, he found none of them really could motivate him into action. While he might have had the sense to say ‘no’ were he asked again now, he was content to let the mistake be.

With his phone flipped over, he found himself surprisingly at peace with music floating out of the little speakers, and everything else quiet around him. He placed flowers and wondered what sort of place he was being taken to. He hadn’t gone on a date in so long—even though this wasn’t a date, it was still a bit exciting. He hadn’t taken the time to do any sort of non-work related socializing in ages.

His musings were cut short by the ringing of his office phone. He frowned at it. They were far passed close, and he wasn’t sure who would be trying a flower shop so late. He picked up the phone more out of curiosity than obligation, since my all means he shouldn’t have been there to answer it at all. “Good evening, Greenleaf Florals, Thranduil speaking.”

“Greenleaf.” The voice on the other line instantly made him tense. He had dealt with e-mails and letters with decent poise, but he couldn’t imagine why this man would be calling him. He didn’t bother to say who he was, or even give Thranduil any proper titles and the rudeness irked him further. “I’m calling about the new lease contra-“

“Don’t bother, Oakensheild. I’m not signing a new agreement.” The other couldn’t see him, but he sat up imperiously all the same, taking on an air of authority that translated into his voice.

“I need it signed or el—“ 

“ ‘Or else’? Please, Oakensheild, don’t embarrass yourself, you have no legal standing. You can’t change my lease agreement and we both know it,” Thranduil scoffed, not having the patience to even let the other man finish his empty threats.

The man on the other end of the line kept trying though. Thranduil should have known he couldn’t end it so quickly. They went back and forth, the tension rising as they cut each other off time and again, just short of shouting over the phones by the time Thranduil realized he’d stuffed a rose into the heart shaped frame so hard that it had bent the wire base. He cursed under his breath, but luckily this fit perfectly into the conversation he was having.

“You can be as uncooperative as you want, Greenleaf, but you’re old lease agreement is only good for so long, and I don’t think you’ll like the next one you have to sign.”

Thranduil set his jaw. Oakensheild was right, his contract _was_ short. He had been hoping to talk the previous owner into selling after it expired, but he wouldn’t get that chance now. “Don’t try me. You should know you won’t win.” With that, possibly empty, threat, he hung up.

He glanced at the bent frame and he could tell it wouldn’t reshape properly. He let out an angry growl of a sigh and picked the whole arrangement up with a needlessly aggressive jerk then stomped to the back door, shoving it open roughly. It was childish, but with no one around, he didn’t much care if he was slamming doors and pounding around like a 4 year old throwing a tantrum. He hurled the piece in the large dumpster behind the shop, the ceramic base hitting it hard enough to get a satisfying crash and thud. It slammed against the back of the metal bin, knocking the lid closed by the force of the impact.

“Woah…” Bard’s voice echoed over from his end of the back parking lot. A prickling shame ran up Thranduil’s spine as he realized he’d been caught in such an undignified action. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the tattoo artist wore a light smile and raised eyebrows, standing near his own back door. Had he been arguing with Oakensheild so long it was already past 10? He shut his eyes tight, towards the dumpster, unable to face Bard quiet yet.

“You okay over there?” he asked, and his voice was light but concerned. Thranduil took a breath. He should have had the self-control to look collected. After squabbling with the short, scheming man for an hour, though, he was not in his most presentable states of mind, particularly when he could not be as confident in his position as he would like to pretend.

“No. Absolutely not. Oakensheild is dead set on his petty revenge and it is getting absurd.” He was storming over before he knew where his feet were taking him. “He owes me money, did you know that?” This wasn’t how he presented himself. He cursed internally for letting his temper show such an ugly side of him, particularly to the Bard, but he hardly knew how to stop now that he’d started. He was standing right next to Bard then, “And he has the audacity to treat me like the debtor.”

“Wow,” Bard chuckled halfheartedly, he reached out a hand towards Thranduil’s shoulder, “Ya might wanna calm down.”

Thranduil wasn’t sure what upset him more, the man thinking he should ‘calm down’ or the fact that he truly wanted to take the advice from the handsome married man that had definitely not asked him out on a date. He swatted the hand away roughly, indignation and frustration trumping politeness in that split second.

“Don’t patronize me,” he growled down at the man, crowding in the little space between them to emphasize the couple of inches he had on the man. He glared across a far too small a distance he’d created between them.

“Thranduil-” Bard was trying to cut in, his head tilted up just a bit to match his eyes.

Thranduil could barely follow the quick succession of events that followed. Bard had shifted suddenly and Thranduil react on instinct. Before he knew what had happened, he was smashing his lips onto Bard’s and shoving him back the foot or so to press him up against the brick wall next to his back door. He pulled back violently in an instant, pushing off the shoulders he’d just be grasping. He stared, wide eyed at what he’d just done, horrified at himself. He didn’t even remember making the decision to kiss the man, but he’d certainly just shoved him up against a wall with their lips sealed together. His mind reeled, trying to figure out just what was wrong with him that evening.

 

Bard was mortified. His head swam from the slight rattling it’d just gotten from being smacked back against a wall, but it was hardly less than he deserved. The last few seconds were a blur to him, but he’d made the decision before the flurry of action from the florist. He could not conceive why his response to Thranduil getting up in his face been to kiss the man! He had just reacted. Thranduil had just been so close so suddenly, leaning over him, seeming to need _something_. Closing that little gap had happened before he’d given himself time to reconsider if that something Thranduil needed was really his lips.

His heart was nearly in his throat as he realized how very far he’d stepped over the line of social acceptability. He was honestly surprised he’d only gotten shoved up against the wall and nothing worse. Though, he was sure his memory of the whole event was a little fuzzy because he could have sworn they were still lip locked when he’d first hit the wall. He assumed Thranduil was just too shocked to think to punch him yet. He was just staring at him, looking completely horrified.

Bard had to say something. Quick.

“I’m sorry I-,” Thranduil beat him to it, and Bard’s words died in his throat at receiving an apology. He was expecting Thranduil to be indignant, angry even, anything. He had every right to be any level of upset.

“Nono! I’m sorry!” Bard stammered back.

“I hope I haven’t… offended you,” Thranduil said, seeming thoroughly uncomfortable. Bard cringed, throwing hands up to wave about in emphasis.

“No! no… I’m not offended,” Bard replied, hands continuing their apoplectic ramblings to go along with his words. The man was being incredibly polite considering Bard had just spontaneously cut off his ranting by trying to make out with him. He could barely look at the man. A painfully long silence followed as neither made eye contact.

“So anyway!”

“In any case!”

The two men practically spoke in tandem, breaking the awkward tension only a little.

“It’s getting late,” Bard noted.

“It’s been a long day,” Thranduil added quickly.

“We’ll… uh, we can do drinks another time,” Bard offered with what was likely the most strained smile he’d ever worn in his life. What guy would want to go out and get drinks with someone who’d just tried to kiss them?

“Yeah, another night,” Thranduil replied automatically, not looking anywhere near in Bard’s direction. He took a step back, “Have a good evening,” he said before turning.

“Yeah!” Bard burst back instinctively, then sighed. Thranduil was already halfway across the back lot to his own store. Muttering to himself he added, “You too.”

They might not go for drinks, but hopefully the man would at least be willing to keep having lunch breaks with him. Bard’s mood sank as he realized he’d likely lost his snarky break buddy to such a stupid snap decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, good job guys. Maybe another night you'll get it right...


	5. Family Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas will attempt to return the favor for years of fatherly advice...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Quicker update than usual, since the last chapter was short and frustrating! lol.

It was nearly 3 pm the day after he’d kissed the tattoo artist two stores down, and Thranduil still hadn’t decided how to handle their daily break together. It wasn’t that he was scared to confront the man; of course not. He was fairly sure he’d make Bard uncomfortable, though, if he showed up as if nothing had happened. He had looked so painfully awkward the night before when they parted ways. He had probably never even had a man hit on him, let alone anything like that disgraceful display. He sighed to himself, trying to decide if he should bother to lie and text the man he was busy, or simply not show up and let it be for a few days, maybe a week. He even considered apologizing for the whole thing, but in the end he decided an apology would only reaffirm the awkwardness of the situation.

For Bard’s sake he did nothing and just let them both have time to put the fiasco behind them. He would just let things cool off for a few days, then slide back into the routine as if nothing had happened. It would make it clear he wasn’t planning to try anything else and give it time to fade a little.

It was 3:10 when his phone chimed. He was working on the rose display he’d destroyed the night before. He frowned, fishing the phone out of his back pocket to find a text from Bard.

“hope you didnt have to work thru lunch”

Thranduil stared at the phone, dumbfounded at how this man be so… sweet. He texted back a semi truthful reply about spring being a florist’s busy time of the year. It wasn’t an untrue statement, but it wasn’t the reason he had skipped the break.

“rough. need a coffee and a bagel or sumthing?” the response came surprisingly quickly.

Thranduil couldn’t begin to comprehend Bard’s actions. He’d thrown this man up against a wall in a gay rage! And here he was, concerned if he’d eaten. Thranduil sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling at a complete loss at what to do with this man. Thranduil wondered if maybe, just maybe, he really was flirting with him, but that didn’t make sense with the ring and the adorable daughter…

“I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

“K. dont forget to eat tho”

Thranduil hesitated. “Concerns noted.” He couldn’t let himself text anything more. He was glad that ended the conversation. He was in territory he didn’t understand and he didn’t like the sensation.

 

The next morning was Saturday. Thranduil had avoided seeing Bard the day before, but, despite himself, he couldn’t avoid the thinking about the kiss, however chaotic and brief. He was still lost in thought when he strolled into his shop a couple hours after open, having told the new manager in training he’d be letting him open on his own for a few days. It’d originally been an excuse to let him sleep in if he were out late but he’d disguised it well as a training exercise. That unfortunately meant he couldn’t back out after Bard and his even was abruptly canceled.

He was heading in just as a beat up old pickup truck zoomed in around back. He glanced at the slightly rusted, but well-loved looking machine pulled in, messily slanted between two parking spots behind the tattoo parlor. He paused, halfway in his door.

Bard hopped out of the passenger seat, and music blared over any conversation he was having with the driver that might have faintly reached Thranduil’s ears. Bard walked around, obscuring a good view of who dropped him off, save for wild dirty blond hair spun around her head in frizzy waves. He leaned in and gave the woman an affectionate peck on the cheek before heading into his store.

The young woman, in the brief glance Thranduil got of her, looked pretty, and far too young for Bard. She waved before speeding off. Thranduil was shocked that Bard was with someone so young. She had to be at least 10 years younger than him! He instantly cringed as he realized the irony of his complaint and hurried inside his store before he was spotted.

His mind couldn’t leave the thoughts. _Why wouldn’t Bard be dating a 20-something year old?_ He had the looks and charm to snag up whatever pretty young thing he wanted. Surely there were some tattooed up young ladies dying to date someone like Bard. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised.

He sighed to himself, feeling more defeated than he had any right to be. He knew the idea of the man possibly being interested in him was a long shot, but it still hurt to have it so thoroughly disproven, while being reminded of his age so brutally at the same time.

He gave barely a one word response to the text he got from Bard later that day, trying to remind him that he should have lunch before he’s tempted to eat the flowers, since he’d heard some of them were poisonous. It was cute, and Thranduil couldn’t let himself reply with anything more than a word or two, lest he try to be clever and cute back.

 

Thranduil arrived home that evening to trip over an extra pair of shoes left in the middle of the entrance hall. He glared at them, then the duffle bag also haphazardly tossed aside, blocking the walkway.

“Legolas!” he called, “Put your things away.”

A young man with a sleek, straight pony tail of equally light blond hair as Thranduil’s popped his head around a corner, “Welcome home, son! So great to see you. How have your studies been?” he spoke in a deep voice to mimic his fathers. “Great. Thank you for asking—I made dinner.” He replied, returning to his own voice with a little extra perk added to it.

Thranduil sighed. College had made his son a smart ass and he was starting to regret the expense. He slid aside the obstructions with his foot. “What did you make?” he asked with so little enthusiasm that it seemed to surprise even his son. He couldn’t muster false excitement. He’d spent the majority of his drive home thinking about that fact that the girl that’d dropped Bard off was probably half his age, and still likely closer to Bard’s age than himself. It pained him to dwell on these thoughts, which, of course, didn’t dissuade his mind from the occupation in the least.

Legolas raised an eyebrow, “Chicken and junk,” he described vaguely. He looked over his father with some semblance of concern, or at least confusion. Thranduil ignored him, moving to make himself a plate from the chicken, ‘and junk’, which consisted of rice and a vegetable medley. He sat down silently.

“… Okay, I’m sorry I came home a day late and didn’t call.” Legolas broke the brooding silence Thranduil hadn’t realized he’d created. “And I’ll move my shoes and stuff. Stop being mad, please?”

Thranduil blinked, “Oh… no Legolas, it’s not you.” He assured, then looked up, “You can move those shoes and that bag of dirty laundry still,” he added, eyeing his son to make sure he didn’t think it was acceptable either.

“Okay, okay, yessir,” he said, though he seemed more at ease to know he wasn’t getting the cold shoulder, or at least not intentionally. “Then, what has you in such a mood?” he asked, “Did someone die—no, did a business deal fall through?” The latter seemed to his son to be more probable.

“Neither,” he said waving it off. He received an inquisitive look that he tried to ignore, but it persisted. He sighed. “The tattoo artist I’ve been sharing breaks with,” he started, “I… may or may not have burned that bridge, or at least I had been fairly certain I had, un—“

“What? How?” Legolas cut in.

Thranduil gave him a stern look for interrupting, but answered, “I may have… come on a bit strong.” Legolas’ eyebrows rose and Thranduil sighed heavily. Where did he get such irritatingly expressive eyebrows?—Oh, right. “In any case,” he went on after a pause for emphasis, “We had planned to go out to drink the other night and, suffice to say, it didn’t work out. I thought he would be happy for me to disappear, but he continued to text me and continues to be entirely too kind. I honestly am at a loss.”

Not often did his father care what people thought of him, unless he was doing business with them. This exception struck his son as rather curious. “This tattoo guy keeps coming up, and I somehow think my burly biker man image isn’t exactly accurate,” Legolas noted absently as he thought over the vaguely described situation, trying to decipher more details than his father had given.

Thranduil thought for a moment before pulling out his phone silently, looking up the Dale Street Tattoo Parlor website to find a photo of Bard for his son. It was an acceptable photo of the man, even if it didn’t capture his charming smile and seemed a few years old. He handed the phone across the table to him.

“Oh, Ada…” Legolas said, flicking his finger over the screen to find more photos of the man in question, “I never knew your type, but it’s so clear now.” Thranduil gave him an unamused look, and he controlled his smirks. “Speaking of types,” he glanced half way up from the phone, “how’s Turiel doing?” he asked, knowing the question would irk his father. He casually handed the phone back across the table.

If Thranduil could possibly look less amused, he managed it, “She is no longer working at the store, dating one of Oakensheild’s nephews, and I have never been more disappointed in one of my florist’s life choices and, by extension, you for having ever shown interested in her,” he spoke with a firm bluntness. Legolas rolled his eyes, though he did so with some level of discretion, not desiring further scolding. He knew his father could hold a grudge like nobody’s business, and he wasn’t about to challenge him on that.

“Well, anyway. What happened with your tattoo artist? He turned you down or…?” He veered the topic back to Thranduil’s life, knowing he’d ventured as far as he dared into the previous topic.

Thranduil shrugged coolly, “Effectively. Though he still seems interested in associating with me so…” he trailed off.

“Aww, you have a friend,” Legolas beamed. Despite the young man’s over enthusiasm, there was some sincerity in the words.

“Legolas.”

“No, really. Wine, flowers, and sarcasm a full life does not make,” Legolas insisted.

He frowned at his son. “I have a little bit more going on in my life.”

“Mm!” he agreed over his cup, nodding as he took a sip, “Contracts and investments. My apologies. Very fulfilling, I’m sure.”

Thranduil went back to eating, dropping the conversation without any further to do, until Legolas started up again.

“So, you were going to go out to drinks?” he asked, “Are you still?”

Thranduil shook his head, “We didn’t end up going.”

“But… you’re going to another day?” he half asked, half suggested.

“Legolas, do you need me out of the house for some spring break party you’re planning?” Thranduil asked with a light glare, trying to sort out his son’s motive for prying.

“No! Seriously. I don’t think I’ve seen you on a date since I was a kid, let alone hanging out with a friend. Friends are great. Really.” After a moment he added, “And going out to dinner with _business_ associates to discuss _business_ does not count as a friendship.”

“I’m not that antisocial,” he insisted, surprised at his son’s enthusiasm on the subject. He hadn’t expected Legolas to really care if he dated, in fact, he’d always assumed his son would find the subject awkward. Apparently he had been wrong. “Anyway, he has a wife and kids,” he tagged on for good measure.

“Even better! No pressure. He’s already made it clear he’s not interested so you don’t have to worry about that. Just go and hang out with a buddy at a bar.” Legolas sounded positive this was a great idea.

Honestly, Thranduil couldn’t argue exactly. He did enjoy Bard’s company, aside from any ogling he might do. He wasn’t afraid to challenge him, when most people were scared off by Thranduil’s confidence in every subject he spoke on, and he was actually quick witted and a good conversationalist most of the time. It _would_ be a shame to lose his friendship. Maybe he could just ‘hang out’ with the man platonically…

Legolas was placated enough that his father looked to be seriously considering the suggestion and let the topic drop. The conversation drifted into how his schooling was going and Thranduil’s businesses, and other more normal conversation topics for the two.

 

It was nearly 11 pm when Bard’s phone went off. He dug through the couch to find where it had slipped between the cushions and checked the message. Generally it was only his children who bothered texting him, and Sigrid was out still, so his mind automatically assumed who it was from as he glanced down.

“Did you still want to get drinks sometime?”

Bard snorted disapprovingly, trying to decide if he was texted by accident or the teen was making some joke. “thats hardly appropriate young lady” he was writing out when he actually took a moment to notice who the sender was. He stopped his fingers moments before sending the horribly inappropriate text to the florist. He let out a breath and carefully deleted the words.

He was shocked. It had seemed like Thranduil was avoiding him the past couple days, not that he blamed him. He had tried his damnedest to shrug the whole thing off, but it hadn’t seemed like Thranduil was up to putting it all behind them and keeping the friendship up. He smiled a little to himself after a moment though. It was a relief to know that the man just needed a few days to get over his discomfort about the whole thing.

Bard considered texting some joke about promising not to kiss him this time, but decided against it. It was too soon considering Thranduil had been so weirded out when it had happened. He would play it safe for now.

“of course when r u free next?”

He might have texted back too quickly, too eagerly, but he wasn’t sure of texting etiquette. He had no right to be such an old man about it, hell, even older people were more technologically advanced than he was more often than not. He simply didn’t like texting. He never felt like he was expressing himself properly via text, like he lost something in a conversation when he couldn’t use intonation and hand gestures. It didn’t help that he felt like he was constantly mistaking other people’s intentions at the same time.

There was a long pause before a response came. It was another thing that bothered him about texting; the wait. Maybe the man was doing something and just hadn’t gotten back to his phone yet, maybe Bard had said something wrong, or maybe Thranduil simply wasn’t as excited at the prospect as he was. There was no way for him to read the silence though. He was just left feeling lost until the stupid screen phone blipped back to life.

“How about Tuesday? Sorry if you’d prefer weekends, they are not the most open for me.”

“tues is good”

He really should have waited on replying to that one, given the long pause from the other. He must have looked like he’d just been sitting there staring at his phone. He had been, but that didn’t mean he should _look_ like it. He cringed as it sent back instantly before he could still his fingers. He soon decided to hell with it all. He didn’t care how it made him look!

“i can have Sig here to watch the munchkins” He added after a moment. His eldest daughter had been far too excited that he’d needed her to stay home Thursday to watch Tilda and keep Bane out of trouble. She’d been a little heartbroken to see her father hadn’t actually gone out to the bar. The teen worried about Bard working too hard. It was sweet, if unnecessary.

 

Thranduil cringed a little at the text. Sig must have been the blond that dropped him off that morning, his wife. He’d almost been excited at the quickness of the texts back, but he was probably reading too much into the speed. Bard wasn’t the texting sort, from what he could tell. He probably just always responded to texts instantly because he hadn’t been numbed to the casualness of texting.

No, this was perfectly okay. He was going to hang out with the excessively charming, handsome, tattooed, married man completely platonically, and that was fine. He was fine. He assured himself that he was not at all still thinking about the brief kiss, or the adrenaline rush of those few blurry seconds. He was just thinking about hanging out… as friends.

“Tuesday it is then.”

“kool. c u then”


	6. Reevaluations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, two men go out for drinks together and realize really obvious things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for nothing!!  
>  ~~no but really I'm sorry for everything. Hahaha~~

Thranduil was to meet Bard at the bar. The idea was that he wouldn’t have to wait around the couple hour difference in their shop’s closing times. The kindness was, unfortunately, not very useful to Thranduil, as he lived too far away for a quick trip back home. He didn’t bother to mention that fact. He just got a bit of work done at the shop, didn’t pick up any calls after the store closed, and showed up 10 minutes late for good measure.

There was a satisfaction to finding someone else who found it much easier to meet up on a random Tuesday than the weekends. His general associations worked the standard business week. He was the only one silly enough to actually work in the stores he opened. It _was_ a rather frivolous use of his time. He might claim the personal attention was what made his shops so successful, but he didn’t put similar efforts into other of his successful business ventures other than his flower shops. If he were to be honest, he simply liked the excuse to work with the flowers. Regardless of the reason, the hours ruined his ability to coordinate his schedule more often than not. Bard’s, on the other hand, matched his quite well, though shifted by an hour or so in the morning and evening.

He spotted Bard, already at the bar, waving him over from the moment he stepped in the door. He had a beer in hand and a deep v t-shirt on that dipped deep enough to hint at his chest tattoos without revealing them, and tight enough to make Thranduil curse internally that he’d ever thought this was a good idea. ‘Platonic’ became his mental mantra and he walked over wearing a polite smile. 

The place had seemed a little seedy at first glance, but as he reached the bar, the atmosphere had grown on him. He determined the dive had likely been in the town for ages, at least if the faded black and while picture of the original owners pinned up behind the bar was any indication. If it had lived through the downturn in the economy without selling or being torn down, the community must have really cared for the place.

“Hope you haven’t been waiting long,” Thranduil said as he settled down in the seat next to him.

“Nah, just got here a minute ago,” Bard reassured. There was a slight pause between them. They’d barely spoken and hadn’t seen each other at all since the incident almost a week before. The awkwardness had never had a chance to be fully alleviated. Thranduil searched desperately for something to say. He’d never had trouble talking to Bard before. He hadn’t planned any of the usual small talk to fill social interactions with.

“What can I getcha?” the bar tender interrupted, giving Thranduil a precious few seconds. He hesitated. Wine was his go to casual drink, but that didn’t exactly fit he atmosphere, and Bard just had a beer, so something stronger didn’t seem appropriate either.

“What’s on tap?” he asked, mindlessly. He was still deciding on an ice breaker, and he barely listened to the choices enough to repeat one back to the bartender with a false decisiveness. His outward appearance was all business, looking like he was considering the drink choices studiously as he used the moments searching for words.

“So, works kept ya busy?” Bard asked mundanely. Thranduil was relieved to have the other man start them off.

“It’s spring.” Thranduil replied as a mug was slid over to him. He took a sip. It wasn’t a horrible choice, given the randomness. “Everyone’s feeling romantic, which means proposals, weddings, anniversaries, and the like.” He said, sounding unenthused at the romanticism of the season. “Everyone wants a spring wedding,” he said with a dry tone.

“Well, isn’t that the idea? New life, blooming flowers, so on so forth,” Bard asked, chuckling at how thoroughly unimpressed Thranduil was with the spring wedding crowd.

“It’s the same damn metaphor and handful of flowers over and over. It gets rather tedious to see the same generic symbolism over and over again,” he griped. He usually didn’t mind, honestly, but he’d had a few over bearing wedding planners stifling his creativity recently, and it ruffled his feathers to have someone think they knew what fit a wedding better than him.

Bard snorted. “I can understand that. It can be a little frustrating to hear a great story a customer wants to commemorate, and ya start getting all these idea, but then they tell you they want something generic, and won’t budge for anything.” He waved a hand, “But, well, it’s what’s important to them. Just because you or I have seen it a million times working in the profession…” He diffused the complaint with perfect customer relations.

Thranduil frowned after a moment staring at Bard for the perfectly diplomatic answer. “Are you going to try to talk me into being thoughtful and conscientious all night?” Thranduil asked dryly, “Because it may have been a while since I did this, but I’m pretty sure the idea of drinks after work is to bitch about your job and commiserate.”

A grin split Bard’s face instantly, “Ah! Your right. My bad! Please! Tell me about your worst customer and I’ll tell you how justifiable it would have been to throw them out on their asses” he said.

With a faint smile, Thranduil thought for a moment, “I once had a woman throw three centerpieces over the counter and at my head because she’d asked for peonies and, as it turns out, did not know what peonies were.”

“ _Throw_ them at you?” Bard asked, shocked. Thranduil nodded. Bard looked impressed. “I guess I never imagined someone getting that worked up about flowers….” He laughed

“You’ve never worked with anyone planning a wedding then,” Thranduil replied, taking a large gulp from his mug. “Passions fly high the morning of a wedding, and fresh flowers mean I get to deliver them during the last minute panic.”

“Sounds terrifying.” Thranduil watched Bard slowly relax into the chatter, and he found himself relaxing too. It seemed more and more plausible that they could just be friends with each passing second. Thranduil probably could use a friend, at least his son seemed pretty certain he could.

“What about you. Your worst customer.” Thranduil prompted.

“You know. It’s just been so nice actually working with clients on tattoos and not having any random side jobs since the store finally opened that it’s hard for me to complain,” Bard admitted, almost apologetic in his tone.

Thranduil rolled his eyes at the lack luster reply, but asked, “Random side jobs? Why do you need side jobs?” He’d seen Bard’s body of work, and it seemed like he should be doing fine.

Bard laughed, “Because I was broke and have three kids!” He replied. Three jumped out to Thranduil. He suddenly felt like he must never have really been listening to the other man, because he only knew of the one blond little thing he’d seen weeks ago. Though, when he thought about it, Bard’s little comments about his child, or in actuality children, had painted too desperate of a portrait to really seem like one child. The generic affectionate use of ‘munchkin’ or ‘punk’ for his children had thrown Thranduil off.

“How are you starting up your own business then?” Thranduil asked, instead of asking about the children. It seemed rude to admit he’d never picked up on that detail. Business was a safer topic for Thranduil.

“What? Oh, lots of saving up and Thorin got me some loans. He’s really not that bad of a gu—” Bard was starting, but before Thranduil even had a chance to argue, Bard had cut himself off. He turned sharply in his barstool to face forward and pulled a hand over the side of his face. Thranduil jumped, going on alert in response to Bard’s actions. 

“What?!” Thranduil asked urgently, though he’d dropped his voice, instinctively matching Bard’s covert nature.

“No. No, sorry. It’s nothing.” Bard insisted, barely trying to cover the falseness of this statement as he lowered his head a bit more. Thranduil was utterly perplexed. His eyes glanced around the bar, but he had no idea what he could possibly be looking for to make the usually confident man so uncomfortable.

“What is going on?” he asked more demandingly, displeased to be left in the dark.

Bard’s expression tipped towards embarrassment, trying to wave it off, but Thranduil’s tone worked its magic and he reluctantly answered, “It’s just—don’t look—it’s the worst blind date of my life. I don’t know why I trusted my boss at my old shop to set me up, but it was the only way he’d stop hounding at me after—”

He didn’t get to finish his explanation as a greasy haired man walked up to them. “Baaard,” he said with an enthusiasm that could only come from someone who is so often unwelcome in a conversation, they learn to embrace the blatant awkwardness they created. He had a slimy feeling to his very nature. Thranduil’s mind tried to piece this together. Blind date. Why in the world would this thing be on a date with Bard? His mind reeled and he could do nothing but stare.

“Alfred,” Bard replied curtly. He’d sat up, having to give up the option of hiding from the encounter. There was nothing friendly in his posture, though. Thranduil had never seen Bard so cold.

“It’s been a long time. I don’t think I have your number anymore.” Alfred tried to slide an elbow on the bar in between Thranduil and Bard. Bard turned to block the lean and the man was forced to awkwardly change trajectory, causing him to seem even more unnatural as he half leaned on himself as if he meant for the strange position.

“You probably don’t,” he agreed without offering to share the information. Thranduil stared at the ridiculous scene unfolding before him. Looking past the slimy man between them he caught Bard’s attention and was met with a hard look for the wide eyes and thinly veiled amusement glittery beneath them.

Alfred briefly glared over his shoulder, judging Thranduil as competition for Bard’s attention but peevishly turned back to the tattoo artist. “You know, if I had it I could have told you about the shop.” Though Bard gave him no indication he was interested in hearing more, Alfred went on. “Yeaaah, it’s changed a lot since you left. Not Master’s Tattoos anymore. He’s gone.”

“Is that so,” it was barely an acknowledgement, but it was a mistake because even that small comment spurred him on further, and with great enthusiasm.

“Oh yeah. We’re doing great. It’s called Dragon’s Fire Tattoos now. It’s pretty hardcore.” He attempted to brag but Bard’s face was stone. “You should come back to work with us, definitely.”

“I have new employment,” he noted. The sleazy man waited for further explanation but got none. Thranduil was amazed that it seemed he still wasn’t picking up on the icy response he was getting.

“Ah, well, I’m heading out with a few of the old gang, if you’re interested,” he offered, still hopeful, despite not having won a single smile from Bard.

“No. I don’t think I am, but you have fun, Alfred,” he said, attempting to end the conversation. It didn’t work.

“Oh, well. I could hang here a little longer, if you’re—“ he started.

“No. I don’t think I am,” Bard repeated, firmer, “But you be on your way, how about.”

The man glanced over his shoulder to glare at Thranduil, as if his refusal was somehow the blonde’s fault, and not possibly his own. He bid an overly fond farewell to which he got nothing but a slight nod. He then slunk away, disappearing into the crowd.

A long moment passed without words. Bard’s jaw was set solidly, but when he met Thranduil’s eye his lips tightened to an embarrassment expression. Thranduil could hardly contain himself. He wasn’t sure even what to try to figure out about the encounter first. His mind had quickly set to reevaluating everything about Bard. He realized only then his incredibly basic mistake, noticing the golden band had been on his right hand, not left. He had a hard time focusing on that point, though, distracted by the fact that someone had apparently thought this ‘Alfred’ creature could ever successfully woo Bard. Not only a man, but a scuzzy creature of a man. He stared in amusement; his mouth fought off the smile with increasing effort, as he tried to find words again that evening.

“That was… enlightening,” Thranduil finally managed, eyebrows raising, emphasizing his last word.

“Oh god. Fuck, please don’t,” Bard burst, pleading, a hand going over his face. He looked pained to be judged by his acquaintance with the man at all. “I was basically threatened with being fired if I didn’t let him set me up. He wouldn’t let up. It was a few years after my wife passed, and I figured, well, hell, how bad can it be to do one blind date?” He downed the last of his beer in an effort to make it through the rest of his explanation, “And it was right after it’d got around that I’d date a guy, and he just…--lord, I was wrong though. If I’d known he was setting me up with his sniveling assistant, I would have just quit instead…”

“And he made you go on a date with that?” Thranduil asked incredulously, but his mind was stuck on something else. He’d date a guy. Having it confirmed set his mind to double time as he kept up the appearance of this not being a game changing statement.

“It wasn’t even a blind date, it was a set up,” Bard griped. “I thought it was just a coincidence he was there. Or more likely that he’d heard I had a date and was just supposed to spy, but couldn’t figure how to be discreet, so he just plunked down next to me. It took me 15 minutes of putting up with small talk, waiting for my blind date--then I realized it was him…” He appeared physically pained at the memory. “God. I need a drink.”

Thranduil couldn’t blame him. He was also about to break. The image of the weasel of a man flirting with an oblivious Bard, the moment of horror when Bard realized the truth; Thranduil snorted in his attempts to keep from laughing, but it was too late. He called the bartender over, laughter tumbling from his lips as he got his attention, “That is a tragic… tragic story,” he agreed between chuckles, “And you definitely need something much stronger to forget it.”

Though red faced still, Bard was soon laughing too. “I couldn’t even quit though,” He explained, pain mixed with the retrospective humor, “Because I couldn’t afford missing any work, let alone however long it’d take me to get another job lined up that could fit with my other two.”

The bartender arrived and Thranduil turned to Bard, “What do you drink?” he asked.

“Whiskey,” he replied after a moment of consideration on if he really needed a harder drink. He did.

“Two,” Thranduil added, happy to match Bard.

“The worst part was,” he went on, “He thought the whole thing went _fantastic_ , even though I left as soon as I realized what was going on.” Bard rubbed hands over his face, as if he could wipe the memory out of his mind if he pressed hard enough. “No matter how straight forward I was, he never gave up either.”

“I’m sorry to say, it seems like he still hasn’t, Bard,” Thranduil informed as serious as he could manage.

“I know!” Bard said miserably, slumping over on the bar. Thranduil patted his back and slid his drink over to him as it was put up on the table. He downed the drink quickly. Thranduil made sure he soon had a replacement, though this one he just sipped at it.

“Well, that was MY worst date. Now I think it’s only fair you tell me yours,” Bard said after a few more sips to recover, pushing himself up a bit.

Thranduil thought for a moment, “Well, I was married for 5 years and had a kid before I came out,” he offered, “That was fairly awkward. Does that count?” Bard looked shocked. Thranduil shrugged lightly, a little surprised at himself for the straightforward confession. It somehow only felt fair to him, though, after other man’s ordeal.

“I had no idea you had a kid,” he finally said, after a few long moments mulling over the statement. It didn’t seem to be his initial thoughts, but it’s what he could get out of his mouth.

“Legolas.” He said nodding, “He’s been away at college,” he noted, “Though, at the moment he’s back for spring break.” The back of his mind cursed him for bringing up Legolas’ age. An overly optimistic part of his brain still felt like reminding Bard how old he was should be avoided.

“Ah! My oldest is just starting to look for colleges seriously, she’s just turned 17,” Bard said with a broad smile. Talk of his children always seemed to bring out the best mood in Bard. It also made Thranduil feel a little less conspicuous about his age, though he wondered at how young Bard must have been when he started having kids to have a 17 year old.

“Where is she planning on going?” he asked, ignoring his real questions, which were piling up in his mind.

“Ahh, she doesn’t know yet. She doesn’t even want to go, says she’s going to be a tattoo artist like me and doesn’t need a degree. I told her she’s not done exploring her options, but I suppose I’m a piss poor example.” He laughed at himself, and Thranduil made the educated guess that he hadn’t gone to college. Having a kid as a teen, unless he was horribly misjudging Bard’s age, could make that a little difficult, he thought.

 

A few more drinks in their conversation had become a little less conventional, moving on from ‘how are you kids’ to more obscure topics.

 

“What do you mean never?” Bard asked shaking his head, “Look, I’ll admit I don’t wash my jeans as often as I probably should, but what do you mean never wash ‘em?” His expression was more serious than a conversation on jean washing merited, his brow furrowed as he tried to decide if he was misunderstanding or being teased somehow.

“They’re nice jeans, you don’t just throw them into the washer. They’re dry clean only.” Thranduil informed, sipping on his newest drink. He probably should have been paying attention to what number it was, but he’d been too engrossed in his conversation and he had been paying more attention to keeping the other’s glass full. Bard seemed to have been returning the favor.

“Dry clean jeans?” Bard asked incredulously, “The hell is the point of that?”

“To keep them nice.”

“They’re JEANS.” Bard insisted, “Do you really dry clean them?”

“No, not always. Sometimes I just put them in the freezer,” Thranduil casually noted.

“Freezer?” Bard stared, seeming to think he’d misunderstood again.

“Yes. If they don’t have any stains,” he explained.

“What?” Bard was laughing, and even if it was at his expense, Thranduil was laughing too.

Thranduil leaned in after the laughter had died down, leaning on both his elbows towards Bard, indicating that this, was now serious talk. Bard had had enough drinks to mimic the posture back at the blond with endearing sincerity.

“So you have a family,” he started.

Bard calmed his face and nodded, taking the cue to be serious, as best as he could manage, at least. “Yes.”

“But you’re gay?” Thranduil had had enough drinks to breach the topic.

“Bi,” Bard corrected.

Thranduil sat back up, “Bi. Really?” he asked raising an eyebrow, as if he could win the truth out of him if he pressed a little further and made it clear he wasn’t buying it.

“Yes ‘really’,” Bard replied, his expression going from intent to annoyed. He waved a hand at Thranduil as if he could swat the incredulous expression off his face.

Thranduil sat back further, but kept his expression intact. “There’s no shame and having had a ‘straight’ phase when you were younger,” he assured.

“Tch. This is why it’s impossible to date as a bisexual. Dear lord,” Bard griped, leaning away on his far hand, and sighing irritably.

“What?” Thranduil asked.

“You, everyone, and the sympathetic looks for the ‘gay’ guy who hasn’t quite found his way yet,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, that’s not how it is,” Thranduil started to object.

“No. It is. I am dismissed as serious as soon as I bring it up. So, I either have to just act straight constantly, because the moment ya show interest in a guy ya must be gay. Or I have to commit to pretending to being gay, and have people dismiss my wife as having been a ‘phase’ or a cover up.” Bard’s frown deepened, but he didn’t seem angry so much as exasperated. This was clearly not a new issue within his love life.

Thranduil felt a little guilty. The man seemed sincere and he didn’t mean to ‘dismiss’ his wife. The guilt multiplied as he realized he’d let the topic of the dead wife be passed by without a word earlier. By the time it had really clicked in his head, buried by other revelations, the comment was so far behind, he thought it would be strange to bring it up to give his condolences. He wasn’t sure if it was appropriate at this point either.

“I didn’t mean any offense,” Thranduil assured in a soothing voice, trying to stay on the topic at hand. “I just remember being in my twenties and being pressured into thinking the only option was shaming the family or pretending I could be in love with a woman,” Thranduil said, calmly, maybe even a bit too quiet for the ruckus bar setting around them. He looked at Bard seriously, “There was no one to encourage me into accepting who I was, and I spent some time claiming I was bisexual and could still love my wife as anything more than a good friend. It was…” He found himself, through the haziness of possibly a few too many drinks, trying to explain something he hadn’t ever had to put into words for anyone. To most people it had seemed sudden. Thranduil always emanated confidence, so when he finally spoke out, it was with such sureness that it belayed the fact that that self-confidence and self-recognition had been over 30 years in the making. He’d been so willing to compromise himself for his appearance, his family, his duty, that it’d taken him that long to stop and focus on himself.

Thranduil realized he’d trailed off. Bard was waiting expectantly for his explanation to continue, but he didn’t know how to go on. He shook his head, sitting up straighter, “The point is, sometimes we’re just trying to give you the push you need to be who you are.”

“See, now, that becomes a bit of a problem when I’m already who I am,” Bard replied, leaning back.

“Fair enough.” Thranduil was quick to reply.

“And I don’t think that all of the looks I get are all as altruistic as ya make it sound,” Bard added.

“Ah, maybe some of it is more just not understanding the concept,” Thranduil admitted. “Don’t be insulted, but I don’t really understand being on the fence about something like that,” Thranduil raised an eyebrow, “How do you not know what you like? I can’t say I really get bisexuality.”

“I know what I like.” Bard sat up a little straighter, “Really, it’s fine though. I don’t understand _you people_ either,” he said with intentional emphasis. “Never really understood why someone’s junk would really make a difference in if you love them or not. Always seemed a bit shallow…” He spoke with a bit of a superior tone.

Thranduil was taken aback, “I… don’t think I’ve ever had a bisexual try to morally one up me,” he announced.

“What’s that supposed to mean,” Bard asked with a raised eyebrow.

He caught the glint of good humor in Bard’s eyes and realized he was being teased. He snorted, and Bard laughed.

“All right, I’m sorry,” Thranduil finally said.

“Ah, it’s fine. I’m used to it,” Bard replied with a shrug, and he seemed to mean it.

After that the conversation trailed off into good humored jibes and a few more drinks until last call. Thranduil looked about at the emptying bar around them and glanced down at his phone, pulling it just enough out of his pocket to see the time. He wasn’t sure how so much time had passed just talking. By the time he came to terms with their being shooed out of the bar, Bard had closed his tab, which covered Thranduil’s drinks as well.

“I could have paid for my own drinks…” Thranduil protested, frowning a bit at the kind gesture.

“Nope,” Bard said matter of factly. Thranduil tried to protest but Bard stopped him before he could reach for his wallet. “Still owed ya for the flowers. Ya never charged me,” he reminded, pushing the wallet away. Thranduil was surprised to realize he was right. In his hurried attempts to stop himself from flirting, he’d completely forgotten to have the man pay for the arrangement weeks ago.

Bard half stumbled over the seat as he tried to lean over and tug Thranduil off his barstool as he headed to the door. He ended up just patting his shoulder and keeping going rather than trying to stop his feet. The whole display was rather comical.

“You’re drunk, Bard,” Thranduil stated flatly. He stood and the room tilted a little, not a full spin, but it certainly tilted. He was reminded in that moment how long it’d been a long time since he’d gone out drinking.

Bard watched him get his balance, giving him an intoxicated, but knowing look.

“I’m fine,” Thranduil assured, before he could be called drunk as well.

“I hope neither of you are driving home,” the bartender commented as he wiped up the bar. He’d been smiling at the two of them for a good portion of the night. He’d seemed amused, probably far more aware of how many drinks they’d had than either of them.

“Nono, don’ worry,” Bard slurred out, and the bartender apparently trusted him well enough to believe it and gave a goodnight as they left.

“Ya really can’ drive,” Bard noted, a bit seriously as they were leaving. Thranduil hadn’t yet agreed that he was too drunk to drive.

“Yeah, well, neither can you,” Thranduil replied, automatically petulant.

“I live 15 minutes walk away,” he said with an undue pride at living in the neighborhood.

“Hmm… I’ll call a cab,” Thranduil muttered. “That’s a long cab ride,” he added regretfully to himself as he pulled out his phone, trying his best not to _look_ like he was fumbling with it, even if he was. Appearances were key, even when sloshed.

“Long?” Bard repeated back.

“Ahhh, yeah. I live an hour and a bit away… well at two there’s probably no traffic though…” he tagged on to himself more than Bard.

“Where the hell do you live?” Bard asked, more shocked than was necessary at the news.

“Greenleaf Estates,” he replied. He didn’t understand why Bard was laughing.

“You live at Greenleaf Estates?” he asked.

Thranduil furrowed his eyebrows seriously. It really wasn’t _that_ funny. “Yes. It’s a nice building,” he replied, feeling defensiveness rising in him.

“No, yeah, no, that’s a ritzy place, right?” Bard was saying, at least knowing that they were high-end apartments, “but… it’s funny, because you’re Mr. Greenleaf and you live at Greenleaf Estates,” he clarified.

“Well… yes, seeing as how I own the building,” Thranduil said, still not understanding why this was all so funny. He stopped next to his car, which he found his feet had been naturally leading him towards, even if he wasn’t planning on driving.

“You… what?” Bard looked from Thranduil to the car, then back to Thranduil. “Oh. OH! Damn it all to hell. You’re onea the ‘rich own all sorts of shit’ Greenleaf?” he blurted. Thranduil had to wonder if there were there so many Greenleafs around that the tattoo artist wouldn’t just assume this. He hadn’t thought to introduce himself as ‘Thranduil Greenleaf, yes of _those_ Greenleafs’.

“I just assumed, all the hours ya working retai—well, shit,” Bard said eyeing the Bentley. “I should have made _you_ buy the drinks.”

“Next time, how about?” Thranduil offered, glancing up. He’d finally found a cab service on his phone.

“Are you really going to take a cab all the way back into the city?” Bard asked suddenly.

“I don’t really have many other options,” he said, though he was fairly sure he’d be passed out in the back of the cab in half an hour, and that didn’t sit well with his dignity. Neither did leaving his car out in this neighborhood all evening.

“Ah, well, if you wanted to just crash on my couch ya could,” Bard offered with a shrug. “I mean, iz no Greenleaf Estates, but the couch is comfy as hell, an’ you’re welcome to it.”

The prospect of staying with Bard a little longer sounded enticing.

“Won’t you’re little lady be upset?” Thranduil asked, the wild haired blond flashing back into his memory.

“What? Who?” Bard sounded honestly confused.

“The one who dropped you off last week! The woman.” Thranduil reminded. He felt like he really shouldn’t be going home with a taken man, bi or not.

“Huh? No… no that won’t be a problem,” Bard said a bit slower as if deciphering Thranduil’s words.

“Oh, she doesn’t live with you or…?” Thranduil searched, with no particularly subtly, to try to find out the exact status of his relationship with the young woman.

“Ha! Well, she does, but she doesn’t get much of a say in who I bring home at night,” he said chuckling now. Thranduil stared, not understanding what _that_ meant exactly. “Sigrid dropped me off Saturday. My daughter,” he clarified, smiling with unbridled amusement.

Thranduil might have been a little more than buzzed, but he could still realize how ridiculously presumptuous he’d been. He’d seen Bard with a kid and everything after that he’d colored with the idea that he just _must_ be a happily married man. He’d willfully ignored the ring on the wrong side, the girl being far too young for him, even that he hadn’t shooed Alfred’s advances with mention of seeing someone else. Thranduil had had himself so tied up in this singular notion of what Bard was that he hadn’t see the obvious. Bard was, in fact, single. Single, and asking Thranduil to come home with him...

“Don’ get me wrong,” Bard went on, ignoring the pleased looking smile that was spreading over Thranduil’s face, likely excused as general drunkenness. “I’d definitely kick someone out if she didn’t like ‘em!”

“I hope she approves of me then.”

“I think she will,” Bard replied without pause. “Come on,” he said.

There was still a bit of a cool breeze holding over from winter, but neither pulled on their jackets. The chillness was refreshing after the crowded bar and a few too many drinks. They stumbled along, Bard leading a meandering journey to his home, not even a full 15 minute walk. Thranduil frown when Bard pulled away from their mutual support, to go to his front door. He quickly missed the arm around his shoulder, and the warmth of Bard’s side pressed to his.

Bard had a first floor apartment on the corner of an old looking complex that might have once been charming a decade or two ago. Bard pushed open the door and reached around to a side table with a lamp, hushing Thranduil as they entered and he remembered it was a Tuesday and Bard had children that had school in the morning. It wasn’t the sort of problem he’d often run into when going home with men in the past.

He glanced around the apartment and yes, it was definitely that of a single man with children. The mess had a charm to it though, at least in Thranduil’s current state of mind. Bard kicked aside backpacks and jackets to lead Thranduil to a worn, but still plush looking couch in the open area just to the left of the door.

“I’ll grab you a pillow and blanket,” Bard said as Thranduil walked over and simply laid himself down, not even waiting for the promised bedding. It really was as comfy as Bard promised. There was a lived in softness that Thranduil hadn’t thought to appreciate before. There was a problem, though.

Bard turned back around and barked a laugh before quieting himself. Thranduil was face first in the couch, but his shins downward completely hung over the edge. The blond rolled over a bit, and must have looked forlorn.

“A’right, change in plans. I take the couch, you take my bed,” Bard suggested in a whisper, offering a hand to help him up. Thranduil rolled over and up lazily into a sitting position.

“No… I couldn’t take your bed, Bard,” Thranduil insisted. He started to lean himself back over on his side, ready to tuck his legs in to fit. He was used to being too tall for things.

Bard grabbed him and pulled him back up. “Nah. Don’ worry. The couch is more comfy anyway.” Another hand grabbed his other and he was pulled to him feet. “I’ve slept on the couch before, iz fine.”

“Hmm… if you insist,” Thranduil said, not able to keep up too much resistance given the circumstance. He nearly tripped over a basket of clothes, even as Bard mentioned to watch out for it. With just the dim light from small lamp next to the front door trailing in after them into the room, Thranduil felt like he must have fallen asleep already. His handsome distraction from the café was leading him by the hand to bed. This was certainly a alcohol induced dream. He just hoped, wherever he’d fallen asleep, Bard wasn’t there to hear any incriminating mumblings that might follow if this dream led where he was sure it would.

Thranduil was deposited next to Bard’s bed as he walked the few steps to his dresser. Thranduil sat himself down looking around, taking in what he could of the room with the limited light. It was small, but at the moment, Thranduil just found it cozy. Bard was kicking clothes strew across his floor into a corner in some tipsy bit of cleaning. Thranduil watched him work, stumbling around, with amusement.

“You really shouldn’t have to sleep on a couch in your own house,” he remembered his protests from earlier.

“Its fine,” Bard insisted. Seeming satisfied with the lazy cleaning, he wandering back towards the bed.

“I’ll feel guilty,” Thranduil continued, looking up at Bard from his place on the bed, leaning back on a hand for support.

“Nah,” was the extent of Bard’s eloquence as he stared down at him. There was a silence between them, a stillness that neither quite knew how to break. Bard shifted slightly away, and Thranduil’s hand reached out, snagging his wrist. He wanted to tell him to stay. Knowing he was single and just might, or at least had the potential to be interested made it hard for Thranduil to keep up that platonic mantra he was supposed to have for this outing. He weighed his options. Bard hadn’t pulled away yet, and that felt almost like an okay to pull him in. The slight sway of Bard’s arm in his hand reminded him that the man was drunk. He tried to convince himself that he was too, that that would excuse any rash decision he made, but no that wasn’t right. No matter how many drinks he’d had, he knew that.

Thranduil sighed and pulled on the arm to pull himself up, despite the nearly overwhelming reluctance to move now that he'd gotten settled in, “No, really, it’s-,” he was cut off as the arm didn’t give any of the resistance he was expecting. Instead of standing himself up, the man above him came toppling over just to Thranduil’s left. Thranduil himself barely got an inch off the mattress.

After a moment’s confusion, Thranduil was chuckling, turning to the side and throwing an arm over Bard. “Are you okay?” He soon found himself laughing into Bard’s shoulder as the man pushed himself into a sitting position.

“Tha’ was aggressive,” Bard accused through the tipsy blonde’s chortling.

“Hardly,” Thranduil replied. He hadn’t yet pull his head up. It was almost as cozy as the walk home. The sleepy reluctance to stand now included lifting his head. He didn’t have the will to pull away.

“You’re too tall for the couch.” Bard was insisting and Thranduil was starting to agree; he didn’t want to go to the couch either.

“You are too,” Thranduil said. A shrug shifted his head up and the down, but didn’t persuade him to move it. He’d known he was tired, but with his head down he found it was a much greater weight on him than he realized. That, or it was the warmth and the musky man smell of the tattoo artist that was lulling him to sleep.

“A bit,” he agreed.

“Then stay,” Thranduil stated, with all the command he could muster from his place drifting off on Bard’s shoulder.

A hand had slipped up into Thranduil’s hair, pushed up from the bottom of his scalp. He didn’t remember it getting there, but it was warm, and solid, and he wasn’t going to argue with it. “Hm, fair warnin, I’m a cuddler, even when I don’t mean t’be,” Bard’s voice had fallen to a mumble, a last ditch effort for an argument that he’d already conceded. The slow trail off felt right as Thranduil’s mind was slowly winding down as well. ‘Cuddler’ didn’t strike Thranduil as much of a threat at all. In fact, it sounded perfect in that moment of fading consciousness. In his mind he gave an affirmative, but if it made it to his lips he couldn’t quite be sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank everyone who's still reading and putting up with my nonsense! You're all troopers. ♥


	7. Don't Cook Bacon Naked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil and Bard try to piece together the evening before and decide what to do with the information they've drunkenly acquired.

Light shone through a kinked blind, leaving one rude ray to shine directly onto Thranduil’s closed eyelids. He had endured the annoyance for some time, simply because he wasn’t willing to fully wake up and acknowledge that this pleasant feeling of arms wrapped around him made no sense. It would be 7 soon, though, if his internal clock was right, and 7 was when he woke up.

He let his mind start to come around and assess the situation at hand. He was warm and comfy, but his mouth tasted like death. He was still in his clothes from last night, but his shirt was pushed halfway up, the messy work of a hand on the small of his back. As he thought on the night before, he remembered being taken home by the tattooed man, rather than take a cab. He remembered the man was gay—no bi, and not as painfully unavailable as previously thought. He remembered being adamant that Bard shouldn’t have to sleep on the couch in his own house. Thranduil, however, did not remember when he’d wrapped the man up in his arms, his nose buried in his dark mess of hair, a leg tucked with his knee just beyond the pair of Bard’s.

Thranduil vaguely recalled a warning from Bard that he was a ‘cuddler’, and, as it turned out, it was a fair warning. He somehow felt he must have taken advantage, even if he remembered the feeling of arms pulling _him_ in, rather than the other way around. Still, Thranduil shouldn’t have ended up in the man’s bed to begin with. He was supposed to be hanging out, drinking beers, making friends. Despite the failure in his original objective, he found it hard to be truly disappointed in the outcome as the warmth of Bard’s breath crept through his shirt and spread over his chest in slow, even increments.

His internal alarm was going off though, so the blond tried to pull away. He bit back a chuckle when Bard let out a grumpy grunt and tugged him back, burying his face back into his chest. The act was painfully cute, but Thranduil was awake and despite any desire to pretend he wasn’t, he couldn’t. Maybe if Thranduil was allowed to kiss that furrowed brow or let his hands wander, he could have been persuaded to stay in bed a little longer. As it was, he carefully scooted out of Bard’s grasp, glad he had ended up on the open side of the bed in whatever drunken maneuvering had ended with them so entangled.

 

Thranduil slid off the bed and, while Bard frowned in his sleep, shifting at a loss of the warm body next to his, he didn’t wake. Thranduil carefully padded to the door, avoiding what was missed in the man’s quick cleaning the night before. He closed the door behind him as silently as possible and realized he was at a loss at what to do.

Thranduil had no memory of the turns taken in walking to Bard’s apartment, giving him no idea of how to return to the bar, his car, or his shop. His phone was dead and thus woefully unhelpful. It had been a 10 or 15 minute walk. He could parse out the most likely direction of the bar and start combing the neighborhood systematically from there. The more logical choice seemed to be asking for directions. He didn’t think he could go back in the room again to face Bard just yet, though, so he found his way to the kitchen. He was in sore need of coffee and he thought the caffeine might lend him a better idea of what to do with his current predicament.

 

Bard clearly hadn’t expected to bring Thranduil home last night; that much was apparent from the general state of the kitchen. Dishes were piled in and around the sink haphazardly, boxes of noodles were left open on the counter, and something was left in a pot on the back burner with a lid on it. Thranduil didn’t investigate further. Nothing was moldy, that Thranduil could see, but certainly someone had neglected their chores. Thranduil’s bare foot crunched an uncooked bowtie noodle and he glared down at the offending pasta before dusting it aside. He was fairly certain he had had socks the night before.

Thranduil dug through the cabinets trying to decipher Bard’s organization system. He finally found a mug and some generic brand of coffee grounds. He didn’t care much what it was at this point. He simply needed the coffee so he could begin functioning properly.

As the coffee brewed, Thranduil continued his browsing of the kitchen, opening the fridge to find it tightly packed, without any discernable organization. Things were stuck wherever they fit and occasionally where they didn’t, making him worry about toppling things if he dug past the first layer. Picking through the mess, he spotted bacon. Thranduil wasn’t normally the bacon sort. For a slightly queasy, hung over stomach, though, the savory flavor was perfection. The man didn’t get headaches after a night of drinking, but it never sat well with his stomach the next morning. While Thranduil’s usual breakfasts were light, granola affairs, after the night before he was looking for something to settle his stomach. He pulled out eggs, cheese, half an onion, and pepper that looked like it was going to go bad soon anyway. He started on the most classic, greasy breakfast he’d had since his twenties.

Thranduil flipped his hair up and into a messy bun. He neatened up the counter, closing and pushing all the noodle boxes to one side and at least fitting all the dishes into the sink to give himself some breathing room. It was while he was pulling out a cutting board that a floorboard behind him gave a squeak. Thranduil turned to find a blond, bright eyed little creature staring up at him in a huge, faded ACDC t-shirt, rainbow pajama shorts peeking out from underneath.

“I’ll help,” the little pixie informed, turning about and disappearing around a wall for a moment before returning with a pair of aprons. One she handed to Thranduil, it simply stated “Don’t cook bacon naked”, which he supposed was good enough advice. Hers was tiny and looked like a reindeer, the seasonal inappropriateness didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest.

The girl didn’t say much else, just started pulling out pans, counting out bread for toast, and mixing eggs with a fork, after Thranduil had picked out all the shell bits of course. Thranduil still hadn’t had his coffee yet, but the girl managed to pull a smile out of him as she worked. She wasn’t the best helper, but possibly the cutest he’d ever had in the kitchen. At the very least, she knew where things were, which was helpful enough in the foreign environment.

The smell of bacon attracted a second child to the kitchen. A groggy young man, looking like a gangly, 13 year old version of Bard, peered into the kitchen, not committed to fully waking up yet. He looked Thranduil up and down seeming vaguely suspicious of the man’s presence. If he had any real misgivings, though, they were assuaged by the sizzling bacon on the skillet. He retreated with only the comment of, “no green pepper.”

The third child walked in a few minutes later, considerably more awake than her brother. Thranduil was fairly certain this had to be Sigrid. She was obviously 17 now that he got a clear look at the young woman. Her hair was bunned up in a messy ponytail at the top of her head, wisps falling out over her pink cheeks, ruddy from a morning jog. She stopped in the doorway of the kitchen, looking over the unexpected scene for a long moment in silence.

“….. Daaaa!” She called, her head turning slightly away from the kitchen, though her eyes stayed locked on the man with her sister. “Who’s the stranger in our kitchen making breakfast?”

“Wha?” a groggy call came back. An ungraceful thud came from Bard’s room.

Soon a bleary eyed Bard walked up behind his eldest, surveying the scene in his kitchen with a seriously, half-awake expression. It was fairly obvious he was no as blessed as Thranduil in how his body dealt with hangovers. He took a long moment to process the whole thing.

“Are you making omelettes with my daughter?” he finally asked, as if needing to confirm reality.

“I am.” Thranduil said, most of his attention on his sous chef as he was attempting to assist her in flipping an omelette without destroying it.

There was another long pause.

“Okay…” Bard accepted, nodding and slowly backing away from the doorway. He patted Sigrid’s shoulder to assure her Thranduil’s presence was acceptable. “I’m gonna go get dressed then.” He paused before tagging on, “Extra cheese.”

By the time Thranduil looked up, Bard was gone, but Sigrid had prowled forward into the kitchen, her eyes intensely scanning over him. He watched the teenager as she tried to decipher his presence, patiently waiting for her eyes to come back to his. When their eyes met she stood up suddenly straight, almost looking embarrassed to be caught so blatantly staring. Almost.

“I’m Sigrid,” she introduced, her confidence already back. This was her house, and the man was a mystery; that was fair enough in Thranduil’s estimation. She walked forward and offered a hand.

“Thranduil,” he replied, taking the hand. He smiled a little at the handshake. The young lady’s had a solid quality to it, one that would win her a good impression in the business world. She seemed to be taking this first meeting rather seriously.

“So…” a slight glimmer sparked behind her eyes and she stepped forward, hands going over the younger girl’s ears. Her sister didn’t pay the act any heed, going about her toast preparations as if nothing had changed at all. The tactic was apparently used often on the youngster. “Did you sleep with my da?” she asked, her voice low and conspiratorial.

Thranduil’s stared, wide eyed, but otherwise he kept his expression even. “No,” he said after a surprised pause, not sure what else to say. Tagging on, “but if you think he’d be up for it,” seemed somehow in poor taste when speaking to a man’s daughter.

“Are you going out then?” she asked, prying further to check if the previous statement had been out of politeness to her father’s privacy. It was clear that dating implied the previous statement.

Thranduil’s brow furrowed and he replied again in the negative.

Sigrid’s shoulders dropped, and she sighed loudly, “A’ course. My da _would_ bring home a handsome man, who’s cooking the whole household breakfast and still not have gotten any,” she griped, seeming honestly frustrated with her father.

Thranduil’s eyebrows raised and he fought to keep the smirk off his face. The comments were wholly inappropriate, but he supposed that’s why his cooking assistant’s ears had been covered. The younger was finally released, Sigrid’s hands dropping dramatically to her sides.

“Well, there’s only so much a girl can do for her father,” she said with another sigh, retreating from the kitchen. Apparently, her father trusting the stranger in their kitchen seemed to be good enough for her. “No Onions,” she tagged on before leaving the two of them to their work.

It struck him how forthcoming Bard’s daughter had been about his sexuality with her commentary. He supposed Bard hadn’t really hidden it either, but the openness about his interest in men still seemed odd to him. He couldn’t have imagined Legolas wandering in and getting involved in his romantic affairs. He reconsidered that point, though, as he realized he hadn’t ever talked about any of his dating with his son, let alone brought someone home. He had been surprisingly interested in his relationship with Bard when he’d brought it up as well. He mulled it over as he went to make another omelette, no onions this time.

 

Bard retreated to his room to piece together the night before after finding the florist in his kitchen, cooking with his daughter. Tilda had instantly taken to the tall man, it seemed, and that warmed his heart, despite his hang over and general confusion. He hadn’t seen any beddings on the couch, and he was usually fairy good at least getting a blanket out for impromptu guests. He had thought he’d spent the night snuggled up with the man, but it had seemed too farfetched to be true when he woke up alone. He mindlessly tugged his bedsheets into some vague semblance of order, and pulled a pair of socks out of the tangle of sheets and had to glance down to confirm they weren’t his own.

Bard groaned slightly to himself, slowly remembering the night before. One thing he distinctly remembered pondering was how far up it was acceptable to go under someone’s shirt when cuddling a friend. He realized in retrospect that this was not at all acceptable. So, he had definitely had his hand up Thranduil’s shirt at some point during the night, at least. Even when sober he became quite cuddly when tired, so judging from his headache, he had probably shamelessly snuggled into the man.

He rubbed his temple and assured himself that if he’d truly offended the other man, he probably wouldn’t have stuck around for breakfast, let alone set to making it. This thought calmed him down a little as he changed into new clothes and tied his hair back. After getting the slept in booze taste out of his mouth, he took a long moment leaning over the sink, his head thrumming in his skull. He really needed another handful of hours to sleep, but splashing some cold water over his face and letting it drip off was all he had time for.

He walked back to his little kitchen to find Thranduil, still in an apron, delivering food over to the table with his littlest correcting which plate went where. Thranduil took direction with the utmost patience as he was bossed around by the little girl.

He stopped still half a room away. He put a hand over his face and took a few deep breaths. Thranduil looked perfect; slightly rumpled clothes hidden partially with the apron, hair in a twist of a bun with a few rebellious strays escaping, and a gentle demeanor for his daughter that he couldn’t have predicted from the business like man. Bard wanted desperately to go back to bed to sleep off this hangover, but even more importantly, he wanted to take Thranduil with him.

“Extra cheese?” Thranduil’s voice cut into Bard’s thoughts and he looked up to find everyone else was seated, Thranduil setting the last one down.

“Ah, yeah,” he quickly joined them at the table. He remembered his manners after a moment and started gesturing, “By the way, this is Sigrid, my eldest. If she asks, tell her how important college is,” he started, ignoring his daughters rolled eyes. He went on, “Bain… who I would say to meet again at any point other than before 8 am on a school day.” The teen raised a hand on cue, but that seemed the extent of his capabilities other than eating, “And looks like you’ve already met Tilda,” The girl had been beaming in anticipation of being introduced even before it was her turn. “Everyone, this is Thranduil, he works at the flower shop at the other end of the strip.”

“Good morning,” Thranduil said with a polite nod to each in turn.

“So! You’re the coffee shop florist?” Sigrid asked straight away. Bard coughed on his eggs and ignored Thranduil’s raised eyebrow in his direction.

“Does my reputation precede me?” he asked, curiously, glancing from the girl to Bard.

“Barely!” she said, offended by her lack of information on him. “And I was never back from school in time sneak in and meet Da’s new friend.” She smiled at Thranduil, “Glad I finally did, since it seems like you two are getting along so well.” There was the slightest suggestion in the comment, and Bain brought his head up a little more, catching it. Bard pinched the bridge of his nose. Rumors were going to start floating around the house in no time.

“We’re getting along well enough. He hasn’t yelled at me for using all his bacon. So, we proceed on amicably,” Thranduil said in an almost whimsical tone. Bard realized he was searching through the words about bacon for any hint of where he actually stood with the man, and coming up sorely lacking in content. Sigrid laughed, and Thranduil smiled at her almost as kindly as he had Tilda. The man had charmed two out of three of his children already, and at the very least, placated the other with bacon.

Bard then fell into checking on his kids getting ready for school status. Bain had dressed, but was a teen boy, so even less responsive than hungover Bard this early in the morning. Still, he pried a few words out of him, and even a ‘thank you’ for the food to Thranduil. Sigrid was already showered and out of her workout clothes, ready to go and offered to take over ‘get the kids to school’ duty for her hung over father. Tilda was the main problem. She had been helping cook and neglected all other preparations. With all this, Bard entirely missed the little smile that had crept onto Thranduil’s lips as he quietly watched him parent through his obvious ailment.

Thranduil let down his hair at the end of the meal. It had managed to get a slight wave to it, and Bard realized that the man must actually style his hair to keep it absolutely straight. He’d somehow just imagined it was naturally immaculate like that.

Tilda stared at the hair with hungry eyes and Bard quickly stopped her train of thought. “Clothes, hair, teeth if you haven’t, backpack,” he listed. She pouted but got up, Sigrid, thankfully taking over Tilda duty. As the two girls tailed away, Tilda could be heard commenting how she would ‘kill a man to get to braid that hair’.

 

The children were soon out the door and Bard was stacking up dishes, waving Thranduil’s attempts to help off. As soon as the door clicked shut, Bard groaned from the kitchen. “How are you not hung over?”

Thranduil leaned back and around in his chair to look into the kitchen and simply smiled a very self-satisfied smile. Instead of answering he asked, “Would it be alright if I took a shower?”

“Oh, yeah of course. It’s the second door over there,” he said waving in the bathroom’s general direction. He was putting dishes away, suddenly very conscious of the mess of his entire home, having an actual adult as a guest in his house.

 

Thranduil found the bathroom with little trouble. While he had found the mess of the rest of the apartment a bit charmingly ‘single dad’, the bathroom was less so. Soap scum and used but not thrown away toilet paper rolls ran rampant, and he wasn’t sure he want to know if that was dirt or mold growing on the edge of the shower curtail. He inspected his shampoo options and grimaced a little at the generic brands. He luckily spotted a few bottles set aside with a note “NOT FOR BOYS”. He assumed this was Sigrid’s secret stash of good hygiene products. The teen would have to forgive him if he stole a bit to spare his hair from the trauma of 99 cent shampoo.

 

Thranduil realized, given the state of the bathroom as a whole, he should have stopped to check for clean towels _before_ getting in. Sopping set after his quick shower, he noted that the only towels available were crumpled up on the floor, and he didn’t care to touch them, let alone wipe them all over his body.

He left a wet trail to the door, cracking it open, “Bard,” he called out into the small apartment, “I could use a towel.”

Bard quickly appeared around a corner and then disappeared before Thranduil could really even catch a glimpse of him, “Right! Sorry, sorry, lemme-,” he trailed off into indistinguishable mutterings for a few moments. Thranduil closed the door and shifted slightly behind it, pulling his wet hair around to one side. If he had to get a delivery in the nude, he was at least going to go about it right.

There was a knock on the door a minute later. Thranduil opened the door, possibly a little more than truly necessary. He reached out for the towel as Bard muttered some embarrassed apology, looking away as he offered the towels. When he glanced to make sure hands were meeting up properly, he found more skin than he expect. Thranduil watched as his eyes darted up and down his dripping form, or the quarter or so that was visible. He swallowed and his mouth shifted as if to take his lip in and bite it, but he caught himself and straightened out the expression before catching that Thranduil was watching him.

As soon as their eyes met a hundred invitations blossomed in Thranduil’s mind, but all died before they reached his lips. The furthest they got was the smirk and an inviting quirk of the eyebrow, asking the man, daring him, to say what he thought. It reminded him of the day, weeks ago, when he’d gone into Bard’s tattoo shop, and he’d barely kept from throwing himself at the man on the other side of his desk. The tension was more palpable now, and a little more plausible.

“Much appreciated,” he said and despite any cheesiness, he threw in a wink for good measure. Even if Bard had no real interest in him, Thranduil knew he was, if nothing else, a sight to be beheld.

Bard’s mouth opened to protest the wink. His cheeks looked just a tad redder than they had a moment before, Thranduil thought, but he turned away instead. “Yeah, yeah! A’right,” he said, conceding he’d stolen a glance. Thranduil let out a deep chuckle and clicked the door shut, feeling like he’d won the encounter. He wasn’t sure when it’d become a competition, but, well, that didn’t stifle his competitive nature.

He found a hair drier, he assumed Sigrid’s as well, and took his time straightening out his hair. While his showers were quick and efficient, he didn’t rush himself when it came to grooming. His appearance was well worth the efforts to keep every strand of hair in its place. It was true that he could have let his appearance go all natural and he was fairly certain he’d still be notably gorgeous, but that was no excuse for laziness. Perfection was perfection.

He noticed the apartment had been cleaned up by the time he left the bathroom. It wasn’t much, but blankets were folded and old dishes were cleared off side tables, magazines stacked. Bard himself was cleaned up a little better too. The man’s hair was neatly tied back in a little bun and he’d switched from a worn out t-shirt to a slightly nicer t-shirt with a plain button up layered over. Thranduil smiled to himself at the efforts, spotting Bard sitting casually on the sofa, as if he hadn’t spent the last half hour hustling around his apartment to make it presentable.

“Hey,” He started.

“Yeah,” Thranduil replied.

“So…” Bard continued.

They both trailed off.

Thranduil’s hundred different invitations came pouring back into his mind, offering to mess his hair right back up, or maybe ask to see if he’d cleaned up the bed room as nicely. An endless stream of cheesy pickup lines ran through his mind. Instead he noted, “You’ll have to direct me to the bar, so I can grab my car.”

Bard laughed, “Oh yeah, of course! Well, Sig’s already picked up my car. Apparently she grabbed my keys and brought it back with her on the tail end of her jog this morning, bless the girl” he noted with a slight laugh.

“She takes such good care of her ‘da’,” Thranduil noted, using the children’s affectionate term for their father.

Bard looked away with a slightly embarrassed sounding laugh, “Ah, yeah, she does. She’s a good kid, ya know?” He glanced back over and seemed satisfied with the nod Thranduil gave him. “Anyway, I could give you a ride over there,” he got to his point.

“It’s not a far walk, right?” Thranduil commented, but Bard’s expression fell. It was slight, but it was enough to shift Thranduil’s opinion quickly, “A drive would be quicker, though.”

Bard hopped to his feet at that and snagged up his keys from the coffee table his feet had been resting on a moment before. “You got everything?”

A dead phone in his back pocket, his keys, and a wallet; he was fairly certain he was set to go. He followed Bard out his door and to the old pickup truck out front. He waited in confusion as Bard walked around the car, not unlocking the passenger seat door, wondering if the man planned to let him at all. That was until he saw the man leaning all the way across the car to physically pull up the door lock. Thranduil couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a car without power locks. He climbed in and inspected the car with a new skepticalness. The windows were crank-up, the rearview mirror had clearly been reattached and was not really adjustable anymore. He was fairly sure there was a whole rusted all the way through in the little area behind the front seats, were it looked like you could pull down a small sideways seat, which did not seem safe at all. On the plus side, it was rather roomy, actually giving him leg room, which he wasn’t used to.

 

Bard turned the car on and seemed absolutely comfortable being greeted by a poppy Taylor Swift song. He rolled down his window a bit and started driving. He caught Thranduil’s look, “What?”

“Nice music choice,” Thranduil said cryptically.

“I have a 17 year old and an 11 year old daughter, Thranduil. I could sing every Taylor Swift song by heart,” Bard said matter-of-factly. Thranduil snorted, and Bard smirked, “Not to brag,” he tagged on.

The drive had barely started by the time it ended. Bard had relinquished radio control to Thranduil, but by the time Thranduil had figured out what was going on with the cord trailing out of the cassette player and found the neon pink mp3 player stuffed between the seats they were already pulling up next to the bar. He had spent the few minutes in the car tossing little insults back and forth; Bard accusing Thranduil of incompetence, and Thranduil prickling up and quickly insisting that it was not his fault he was dealing with such makeshift equipment. Thranduil didn’t need cracks about his technological knowhow from a man who barely knew how to text.

Bard put the truck into park, and Thranduil gave up and put the mp3 player back where he’d found it stuffed originally, figuring that was most likely its home.

“Whelp,” Bard said, but, as it turned out, he didn’t have anything to follow the sentiment up with.

“We will have to do this again sometime,” Thranduil said, unbuckling. “sans my crashing at your place,” he added, with a little smile.

Bard shrugged off the addition, though, “Nah, I mean, my place is generally free for crashing at when need be. Nothing wrong with a house guest who makes ya breakfast in the morning,” he replied. Thranduil wondered if drunken cuddling all night was also part of that invitation.

Their conversation didn’t feel quite over, but nothing filled that void between them. No goodbye felt appropriate, but each passing moment made it more apparent that something was mutually unresolved between them.

Bard shifted to take his foot off the break, and the tension snapped. In an instant Thranduil found his fingers sliding over scruffy jaw, grabbing the man’s face forward, but it was clear it needed no encouragement. Bard’s hands had already tangled into his silky hair, and tugged him forward with equal urgency. Their mouths crashed together over the center console in a messy kiss that only near solid week of emotional ambiguity could excuse.

Thranduil pulled Bard further over the console, but found him nearly jerked right back out of the kiss, his seatbelt locking from the sudden tug. Thranduil didn’t even hesitate to correct for this by climbing right out of his seat and into Bard’s. Their kiss breaking only for Bard to reach below his seat. The seat slide back a little ways with a squeak and a loud clang as it locked into place. Even with the seat pushed all the way back, and even with the roominess of the old pickup, they still by no means fit together on the seat. Neither gave the slightest indication of caring. Their lips were back together before a breath could pass.  
It was not an elegant kiss, nor tactful, but Thranduil could barely be bothered to notice as hands slipped under his sleep rumpled shirt. It started with fingers, tracing over skin, but soon flattened out into warm palms moving up, pulling him in, and sending a rippling shiver up his spine. It wasn’t truly worth the breathy break in the kiss, or his fingers curling tightly in his dark curly hair, ruining the tiny, neat ponytail. It was just hands pushing up from the small of his back, but at that moment he could trade the world to keep those hands on him.

He was just diving back in the centimeter to close the gap he’d given himself to breath, when there was a hard wrapping of a knuckle on the half open window. Thranduil sat up suddenly, only to be met almost instantly with the ceiling and hissed a curse.

“Not to interrupt your moment here,” a voice from just outside the car started. The man outside looked vaguely familiar, and that only increased Thranduil’s embarrassment as he realized he’d been caught, making out in a car like a teenager, and not only that, but at 9 in the morning parked next to a bar. “But it looks like this is about 30 seconds from getting indecent, and I thought I’d warn you there’s a cop that hangs out about a block that way.”

Thranduil didn’t like his dignity compromised, and his current position was anything but refined. He could feel the heat of the moment be replaced by heated cheeks. Hands still on his back, previously stark still, moved again, giving his back a little squeeze, as Bard actually started laughing beneath him.

Thranduil stared down at him in disbelief.

“Thanks! Thanks,” He manager between laughs. He was at least red faced, but he didn’t seem to be taking this very seriously. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“A’right then,” the man said, nodding to them and was on his way. Bard continued laughing even after he was gone.

“That was hardly funny, Bard,” Thranduil snipped down at the man.

“That was _very_ funny, Thranduil,” he replied without a speck of hesitation. Thranduil smacked hands down a bit rougher than necessary as he pushed off Bard to awkwardly slip back into his seat. The temporary lack of air at least quelled his snickering a little.

“Ahem,” Thranduil called attention back to him, straightening up as he did, “In any case, now that _that’s_ out of the way-,”

Bard cut in, “Dinner, how about. Lemme take ya on a proper date.” He suggested, but his eyes slip to the car a few spaces down, “Ooor you could take _me_ out on a date…. Why do ya work at a flower shop again?” he asked.

Thranduil does his best to ignore the flutter of his heart to be asked out on a date. He wasn’t the giggling over crushes sort, but being asked out was almost novel. Tall and gorgeous didn’t leave him without suitors, but few were of a quality that he’d be interested, and fewer still would have the courage to approach him. He generally was the one to notice the starry eyed looks he was getting, and, if he deemed them worthy, grace them with his presence.

“I think that sounds acceptable,” he replied, pushing open his door with a rusty squeak.

Bard laughed, “Good.”

Thranduil pushed his hair back in order and gave his shirt one last tug. He looked over Bard, who still looked haggard from the night before, even if other emotions over shadowed it at that moment. “And I’m going to suggest you go back to bed,” Thranduil said, seeing the hidden fatigue.

“Ah, but who will I cuddle, now?” Bard lamented.

“Spoiled for sleeping alone all ready?” Thranduil asked. “I’m sorry to say, you’ll have to make do without me for now.”

“Is that an offer for another time?” Bard gave a smirky look that Thranduil physically couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes at. He took on a more earnest look then, “But in all seriousness, I hope I didn’t keep ya awake. My tendency to latch onto the nearest thing is much worse when I’ve been drinking,” he admitted.

Thranduil had no complaints about the arms wrapped around him from the night before, in fact, it’d been surprisingly pleasant, given his general distaste for actually spending the night in his usual dating routine. He reached over to affectionately push a lock of hair he’d pulled out of Bard’s tiny pony tail back behind his ear. “Oh, don’t worry. If I’d minded I would have shoved you of the bed. I’m not a very considerate sleeper,” he assured in a soft voice. While he’d been known to literally kick people out of his bed while he slept, Bard had fit perfectly into his arms. He’d been surprised as how easily they’d fit themselves together, though he imagined the drinking helped.

Bard barked a laugh, “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, and glanced to Thranduil to see if the suggestion in the words was taken well. Thranduil smiled and pushed open the door. He made no effort to argue the implication.

“I’ll see you later, Bard,” Thranduil said, heading to his car. He would be tired for work, but the price seemed well worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna preemptively apologize, because chapters might come really sporadically for a while. I'm switching up schedules so we'll see where my free time ends up.
> 
> But I finally got these idiots to kiss!! That's something right?!??


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